Face-Slapping10 min read
"Stop Her! My Baby Is Not For Sale"
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"I saw her with my baby—stop her!"
I shouted until my throat hurt.
"Casey, calm down," Gabriel said, his hand on my back. His voice was soft but his eyes were hard. "Tell me what happened."
"She took her," I cried. "Lainey—my sister-in-law—took Mian and ran."
Gabriel's face went white. He fumbled for his coat and limped toward the yard. His leg was still raw from the fire. I clutched the thin blanket and the hollow ache in my chest like a new wound.
"Where did she go?" Ford asked, already at the gate. His voice trembled with age and anger.
"To the creek," Boston—Gabriel's cousin—said. "I saw her with a basin. She looked crazy."
"Who would do this?" Andrea whispered. She stood by the doorway with Mian safe against my chest, though Mian's small hands were restless. "My baby. My Mian."
Mian blinked at me, big dark eyes like two wet stones. She had been so small, so loud at birth. People said she was a sign. Ford always said, "We got a girl for the line," and all the men laughed like it was a good thing. Lainey had not laughed.
"Go," I told Gabriel. "Take the cart. Get the village. Don't leave me alone."
He kissed my forehead and left fast. The sky had a red burn at the edge. Our yard smelled of smoke and boiled sugar. I felt like the whole world moved too fast.
"She will come back," Andrea said, though her voice shook. "God will not let a baby be lost."
I wanted to believe her. I wanted to stay calm enough to think. Mian squirmed and let out a small, fierce cry. I fed her what I had and held her like the world was tiny and she was everything in it.
People came. Voices crowded the air.
"She sold a baby once before," someone said. "I saw something last spring."
"No, she would not—"
"She spoke of money and gold. She has always been greedy."
I felt every eye on me. I felt Lainey's hands on my child in the memory so sharp I could still feel them—rough, quick. I put Mian to my chest and promised, out loud, "I will get her back."
We went to the creek. We yelled her name until our throats were dry.
"Look!" someone cried.
A small wooden basin floated down the shallow water, carried by a herd of fish. Mian lay in it like a pale flower. Around the basin, fish pushed and bumped like a living escort. The water shone and the basin bobbed closer.
I ran. I ran with everyone. I reached out, slipped, and Gabriel's strong hands wrapped around me and lifted me over the muddy bank. He took Mian and pressed her to my chest.
"She's alive," he said, and for a moment all noise stopped.
Mian reached for my face and made a sound. The fish around the basin leapt up and filled people's hands. Soon the whole village had fish, slapping wet and heavy against palms.
"She brought them," an old woman said. "The girl is blessed."
Someone pushed a basin of warm rice into my arms. Someone else handed Gabriel two small silver pieces and said, "For the leg."
I could breathe. The plank of fear under my feet lifted, but something else pressed. Lainey had laughed at us for years. She had said our girl would be bad luck. The thought of her hands on Mian had a sharp edge.
"How could she?" I asked again. "Why would she do it?"
"Money," Boston muttered. "They were doing it for money."
The sheriff—Dirk Zhang—arrived with two of his men, their coats dark and clean. He held Mian for a second and watched her like a duty done well. "We caught a trafficker at the dock," he said. "A woman and a couple bought the child. We have the buyer and the broker."
"You found her?" I asked, grabbing his sleeve.
"Yes. We took the brokers at the pier. The buyer confessed. We have the pictures. We have an eyewitness."
I could not stop shaking. "Then arrest Lainey. Arrest the ones who did this."
Dirk's eyes were calm. "We need proof. Someone saw her with the basin?"
People spoke, names and times and small hints. The image of Lainey at the creek knit into a rope and tightened.
The house split into two families that week. Lainey screamed and denied. Her two children—boys with sticky fingers—asked for dinner. Her husband, Kingston Otto, went pale and kept his head down. The village had ideas about shame, and shame moves like a gang of dogs.
Days later Dirk came with a thin piece of paper. "We have the woman who bought the child," he said. "Her partner named the sellers. Your aunt and her son are in the pictures."
"Bring them here," Ford said. "Bring them here now."
We walked to the square. The market had been a place for bread and gossip; now it would be the place for truth.
"Casey," Dirk said softly, "tell them what you saw."
I could not stop my hands from trembling. I told the crowd how Lainey had spoken of money before, how she had been cruel to my pregnancy, how she clucked about "disaster babies." I showed the child blanket with a tear where Lainey had brushed it. I named the times, the words, every small bit of proof.
Lainey stood among a small knot of people and watched me. Her face was dry and tight. Her eyes looked like stones.
"She sold my child," Gabriel said, and his voice cut clean. "She sold her to make money."
Lainey laughed then. It was a laughter not of joy but of a woman trying to hide panic. "You are mad," she spat. "I did not take your child. Who would believe you?"
"You will believe the pictures," Dirk said. He pulled a paper from his coat and handed it to the crowd. It was a grainy photo of Lainey and her son exchanging a basin with an old woman. The face of the buyer was clear: a woman who sold babies. The village gasped.
"Show them the coin," Ford said. "Show them the coin she used to pay."
Gabriel held up a small silver piece. It shone in the sun. A woman in the crowd shouted, "I saw that coin in Lainey's purse!" Another nodded.
Lainey's face changed. The red left. Her hands began to shake. She took a step forward. "That is a lie. That is a lie!" she cried.
"Quiet," Dirk ordered. "We will hear her."
"No," a voice from the crowd cut in. It was Boston. "No, the broker named them at the dock. The buyer pointed them out. The woman confessed and told the whole chain."
Lainey stumbled back. Her son, Kingston, clenched his jaw and looked away. The crowd pressed in. Someone took a cloth and shoved it at Lainey's dirty hands like it would hide what she had done.
"People, listen," I said. "Do not let her make a show. She sold my baby and left her in a basin. My Mian could have drowned. She did this for silver."
"She did it for ten coins," the broker on the dock had said. "Ten silver. She wanted the money for cloth."
Lainey went white. She looked at her hands like she had never seen them before. "I... I—"
"You lied to me," Ford said. "You called my family cursed. You called my child a disaster. You sold her like a sack of grain."
Lainey crumpled. She dropped to her knees right there on the square. She had always been loud and cruel, but now she was small. Her voice folded. "I didn't mean—please, please let them go," she begged. She looked at her son and then at us. Tears began to run down her face, thick and dirty. "I can pay. Give me the silver back. Give me the silver—"
"Get up," Dirk said, but his voice had a hard edge. "You led the sell. You will come with us to the station."
Lainey knelt, her palms flat on the dusty road. Her knees made small, dark marks. People began to point phones and whispers turned to a hum like bees.
"Ask her why," Boston shouted. "Ask her how she could sell a baby like a basket!"
Lainey looked up. Her eyes were wild and small. "We were hungry," she said. "We were desperate. I thought—"
"Thought?" Ford barked. "You thought and you stole a baby's life."
Lainey's face changed again. She started to thrash in a small, ugly dance of shame. "I didn't mean to—"
"How does 'not meaning to' bring the baby back?" Andrea asked. Her voice was icier than the dawn.
"Please," Lainey whispered, and then louder, "I will beg. I will beg the whole village. I will kneel. I will—"
She did not need to be told. She fell forward and clasped at the dirt, sobbing. The crowd swarmed. Phones lifted. Someone filmed. The sound of her begging mixed with the rain of accusations.
"Down on your knees and beg my wife," Gabriel demanded, not lowering his voice. "Beg in front of everyone."
Lainey lifted her head and looked directly at me. Her mouth trembled. "Casey," she croaked. "I am sorry. I am sorry. I—"
"Say it," I said, my voice flat as a blade. "Say why you did it."
"I needed the silver," she said. "Kingston needed cloth. They laughed at me in the village. I was ashamed and angry. I saw the baby and thought—"
"You thought to sell my child for ten coins?" I asked. "You thought that was okay?"
She nodded like a broken thing. Her hands scraped the dirt. The crowd moved, a pressing wall of people. Voices rose like wind.
"Look at her," Dirk said. "She sold a child. She sold a child. She is not safe."
Lainey began to cry harder. She pressed her face into the dirt. People spat. Someone threw a handful of dry straw on her back as if it meant to mark her. Kingston tried to reach for her. An officer held him back.
"She will go to the station," Dirk said. "She will be tried. The buyer is already in custody. The broker confessed."
Lainey found her voice. "Please," she begged again, louder. "I will lose my children—please, I will lose my house. I will—"
"Beg me," Gabriel said. "Beg me."
Lainey pushed her face up from the dirt and looked directly at him. "Gabriel, I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I know you don't trust me. I'm sorry. I am begging you—please, show mercy." Her voice broke into thin pieces.
There was a long, ugly silence. People pressed in. A phone flashed up and down a hundred small gray screens. Someone laughed; someone cried.
"Mercy has a price," Ford said. "You will need to make it right. You need to be punished in front of all who you harmed."
"Arrest her," someone else shouted. "Let the law decide."
Dirk moved forward and took Lainey by the arm. He did it in a quiet way that meant it was done. She could not stand; she slid along the ground under his hand. The villagers made a path. Phones recorded as she walked.
"Look at her knees," Boston said. "She is stunned that people see her."
Lainey looked up one more time. The shame in her eyes was no costume. She fell to the steps of the town hall, her forehead resting on the stone as if the building itself might swallow her.
"Please," she kept saying. "Please let me keep my boys. Please—"
No one answered. The crowd watched. Some spit at her shoes. Others kept silent, and I could see relief in some faces, pity in others.
When they took her away, she turned and begged once more, this time toward me. "Casey," she cried, "I am sorry. I am so sorry."
I did not speak. My daughter was warm against my chest. The village had watched her beg, watched her fall, watched her face change. I felt a strange mix of victory and cold emptiness. The law would do its work. The village had done its part.
That night, the square rang with talk. People said the word "justice" like a bell. Some said we had gone too far. Others said nothing.
The next day, at the station, I watched Lainey again as she stood before a small circle of officials. She was thin and raw. Her eyes were swollen. She told the same story, only this time the words were forced into a pattern. Dirk read her statement aloud. Kingston wept in the corner in silence.
"Why?" I asked the sheriff as we left the station.
"Because she thought she could," Dirk said. "Because she was cruel. Because society lets it happen sometimes."
"Will she get hard time?" Gabriel asked.
"We will see," Dirk said. "The law will take it from here."
The village did not stop watching Lainey. Her family came by our house and begged for forgiveness. They were turned away. Kingston's son, who had followed his parents like a shadow, came to the gate and wept, but we did not open it.
Lainey's punishment was not just the law. It was the way the whole village turned its face. It was the way she was seen as a small, frightened thing, and then not helped. The broker who sold the baby had already lied and been cornered. The buyers were taken to court. Lainey's hands were known and dirtied by a thousand small witnesses.
Afterwards, things changed in small ways. The creek kept giving fish. The rabbit burrow by the hill seemed to give more rabbits than before. The old Ford began to take his pride back. He said small things to Mian as if she were a queen.
"She is a light," Ford would say, making my hands tremble. "She saved us from hunger."
We cooked fish and laid out food. We celebrated quietly but with a fury inside like a flame that would not die.
Mian grew. She learned to lift a fist and point like she meant things. She learned to blink and laugh and twist her small face until my heart cracked open like bread. People came by to see the girl who had brought the creek to life. Surprising neighbors left gifts. Someone from the market offered cloth. Men came and knocked in respectful and greedy ways.
Lainey was gone from our life in more than a legal way. Her family left our table like guests who had offended their host and were never asked back. Every time someone mentioned her name, the village made small noises—either a cough or a hard breath. I kept my face calm.
One market morning, a rumor passed like wind: Lainey's youngest son had been sick. Her husband had come to the square to ask for work. He had been turned away. He bent into himself, embarrassed and small.
"Why did you do it?" Andrea asked one night, alone, folding a small cloth. "Why sell a child?"
"I don't know," I said. "Maybe she wanted to be seen. Maybe she wanted silver more than the look in her eyes. Maybe she thought the village was unfair."
"She will remember," Andrea said. "She will go home and live with it."
Justice, I learned, does not teach everyone the same lesson. Some beg and keep their names. Some are locked away and still feel sorry in the dark. Some stand up and beg and are forgiven. Our village had chosen a path: to protect the small with everything we had.
Mian grew up with a hunger for what was right. She had small powers of luck, people said. Fish came to us and the rabbits bred. Doors opened. Clothes mended. We fed the hungry and sometimes we kept the extra.
Years later, Lainey returned to the square one slow morning with a cane, wobbly like she had been beaten by time. She came to our gate and stood outside, watching. Her hair was thin and her hands were small. She could not look at me.
"Please," she said, not to me but to the air. "Please let me be part of this village again."
I thought of that hot market day and her on her knees. I thought of all the small eyes that had watched us. I thought of Mian asleep on my chest, a wet hand on my collarbone. I turned and took my daughter inside. I fed her. I warmed her.
Lainey left. She died months later alone in a small room no one opened often.
I do not think being crushed by a crowd is kind. I do not think having your name thrown like garbage is a mercy. But I saw what her choice had done. I saw the fear and the small courage of the village to save a child.
Mian grew into a girl people came to see. She would take my hand and pull me down rock paths where the rabbits were fat and the fish crowded the shallows. She would clap when she saw Lainey's old son pass by at a distance. Once, she pointed at him and said, "He looks sad."
"He is," I said. "But we cannot be all hurt and all mercy at once."
She nodded like a small judge.
At night, when the house settled, I would tell her the story of how we found her in the basin and how the fish came to guard her. She would laugh and then frown and then whisper, "I do not like that woman."
"I know," I would say and pull her close.
We would sleep. The world went on.
The End
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