I couldn’t speak. I couldn’t even step inside the unit. My legs turned to sand beneath me.
The detective, Officer Daniels, kept his voice calm. “The unit was discovered after the facility reported a break-in attempt this morning. When we traced the lease, we realized it belonged to your sister.”
Andrew placed a protective arm around me, but I barely registered it. My eyes were locked on the walls. On the cribs. On the rows of diapers, toys, formula—everything arranged like someone had prepared for newborns to arrive any minute.
Except my twins were born only four months ago.
“How long…?” I managed.
Daniels nodded toward the clipboard. “Records show she rented this nine months ago. The same week as her baby shower.”
My stomach dropped.
The same week she pointed a knife at me.
Inside the unit, the air smelled faintly of baby powder. The mobile above one crib spun by itself from the breeze of the open door, playing a soft lullaby I recognized—one I had on my own nursery playlist.
“She knew their names before they were born,” I whispered.
Andrew squeezed my shoulder. “Honey, she must have seen the list we shared with family.”
“But why paint them? Why build a whole nursery? For babies that weren’t hers?”
Daniels didn’t sugarcoat it. “We believe your sister may have been preparing… prematurely. Or planning something regarding the twins. We’re still determining intent.”
Intent. The word pierced my spine.
“Is she dangerous?” Andrew asked.
Daniels hesitated. “We don’t know yet. But given the knife incident, we’re taking this seriously.”
I forced myself to step inside. The floor was spotless, the room spotless—eerily meticulous. On a shelf sat two framed pictures printed from my social media. One of my baby bump. One of the twins at birth.
She kept photos of my babies.
My knees buckled. Andrew caught me before I fell.
“We’re increasing patrols near your home,” Daniels continued. “And we need you to report any unusual contact immediately.”
“When was she here last?” I asked.
“Yesterday.”
The word felt like ice poured down my spine. She had been preparing this room while I slept peacefully at home, oblivious.
As we left the storage facility, Andrew held my hand like he was afraid to let go. I couldn’t blame him—I felt like I was floating outside my own skin.
At home, the twins were napping peacefully. I stood in the nursery doorway and stared: soft blankets, pastel walls, names written lovingly. A real home.
Then the image of the storage unit flashed in my mind—its walls painted with the same names, the same tenderness, but belonging to someone who wasn’t their mother.
That night, I barely slept. Every sound made me jump. Every car passing by made my heart spike.
Not because I feared what had happened.
But because I feared what might still come.
Two days later, I received a call from the police. Officer Daniels asked if we could come down to the station.
When we arrived, he motioned for us to sit. “We located your sister this morning.”
My breath caught. “Is she okay?”
“She’s physically fine. But she was found sitting in a parked car outside a pediatric clinic. No child with her.”
A chill slid through my spine.
“What was she doing?” Andrew asked.
Daniels folded his hands. “She told officers she was ‘waiting for her babies’.”
I felt sick.
They allowed Olivia a supervised conversation with me. I agreed, partly to understand, partly because some part of me still loved the sister I grew up with.
She sat behind a glass partition, looking smaller than I remembered. Her hair was unkempt, her eyes red, but she smiled the moment she saw me.
“Abigail,” she whispered into the receiver, “I knew you’d come.”
I swallowed hard. “Why did you make that room?”
Her smile widened, unsettlingly childlike. “For the twins. For Mason and Lily. I wanted everything perfect for when they’re mine.”
The words hit like a punch.
“They’re not yours, Liv.”
Her expression hardened instantly. “You always take what’s mine. You took Michael’s attention. You took Mom’s praise. You took the life I wanted. Then you took the babies that should have been mine.”
“Olivia,” I whispered, fighting tears, “these thoughts aren’t real. You need help.”
“I’m fine,” she snapped. “You’re the problem. You don’t deserve them.”
She leaned closer to the glass. “They were supposed to come home with me.”
That was the moment I realized I wasn’t talking to the sister I knew. I was talking to someone drowning in a delusion.
The mental health evaluator later told us that Olivia was suffering from a severe postpartum-related psychosis compounded by years of unresolved grief and infertility trauma. She was placed into treatment under court supervision.
The nursery in the storage unit was closed as evidence. The facility offered to paint over the names, but I declined. Something about erasing it felt wrong, even if it terrified me.
Days passed. Slowly, the anxiety eased, though it never fully disappeared. Every night, before bed, I checked the locks twice. Sometimes three times.
But life continued.
One evening, as I rocked Mason to sleep, I realized something:
Olivia’s pain didn’t make her actions right, but understanding it helped me stop feeling hunted.
Healing didn’t come from forgiveness—it came from reclaiming safety.
The twins grew, laughed, learned to crawl. Andrew and I found a rhythm again.
And though part of me still feared the future, another part knew we’d survive it.
