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First Lie
Last Updated:
2025-12-02 13:16:12
Latest chapter
Signed Not Chosen Rosa's Warning
The phone buzzed at 6:03 a.m., buried in my left shoe like always. I was on my knees in the sink, scrubbing Leo’s onesie with a sliver of soap, hands red and cracked from the cold water. The room smelled like mildew and yesterday’s bread. Outside, a rooster crowed like the world hadn’t ended.I didn’t want to answer. Burner phones only ring for bad news.But I knew it was Rosa. She’s the only one who has this number.“Remy?” Her voice was low, urgent, like she was speaking through a wall. “You need to disappear. Now.”My blood went cold. “What’s wrong?”“They’re offering a reward,” she said. “$50,000. For information leading to your capture. Flyers are up at the bus station, the market, the post office. Your photo. Leo’s too.”I gripped the edge of the sink. “Who’s offering it?”“Sterling lawyers,” she said. “But your father’s the face of it. He’s on the local news, crying about how you ‘stole his grandson’ and ‘fled with medical property.’” She spat the words like they were poi
Signed Not Chosen Leo's Fever
It started with a whimper. Not a cry. Not a scream. Just a soft, broken sound in the dark that made my whole body freeze. I opened my eyes. Reached for him. His skin was hot—really hot—like he was burning from the inside out. “Leo?” I whispered. He didn’t answer. Just turned his face into my chest, breathing fast and shallow, like he was running even in his sleep. I sat up fast, heart slamming against my ribs. Checked his forehead. His neck. His back. All scorching. His lips were dry. His eyes half-open, glassy with fever. Fever. High. Dangerous. We were in San Quintín—a dusty border town between Tijuana and Ensenada—staying in a room that cost $10 a night. No fan. No running water. Just a metal bed with a mattress so thin I could feel the springs through my clothes. The walls were cracked. The ceiling leaked when it rained. The toilet didn’t flush. I had $7. Not enough for a doctor. Not enough for a clinic. Barely enough for bread and water. But Leo’s breathing
Signed Not Chosen First Lie
The shelter smelled like bleach and boiled cabbage. Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead. The floor was cracked linoleum, stained with years of tears and spilled coffee. I stood at the front desk, Leo asleep against my chest, my heart hammering like it wanted out. The director, a woman in her fifties with tired eyes and a silver cross around her neck, glanced up from her clipboard. “Name?” I almost said Remy. But that girl is dead. “Rey Martinez,” I said. “Age?” “Twenty.” She scribbled it down. “Reason for seeking shelter?” This was it. The moment I had to choose between truth and survival. I took a shaky breath. “My husband… he became violent after the baby was born,” I said, voice trembling just enough to sound real. “He threw me out last week. Said I wasn’t good enough to raise his son. I’ve been sleeping in bus stations since.” She finally looked at me. Really looked. Saw the dark circles under my eyes. The way my hands shook when I adjusted Leo’s
Signed Not Chosen Fake Papers
I woke before dawn to the sour taste of hunger in my mouth and the dry ache of thirst in my throat. Leo was already awake, his dark eyes wide and watchful, his tiny fist shoved deep in his mouth like he was trying to suck comfort from his own skin. He didn’t cry. He hadn’t cried much since the night we ran. It was as if he understood, even at five weeks old, that sound could kill us. I had nothing. No formula. The last drop was gone yesterday. No money. No hope. Abuela Rosa knocked at 7 a.m., soft but firm. “Breakfast, mija?” she called through the thin door. I wanted to say no. Pride is the only armor I have left. But Leo’s stomach growled—a small, desperate sound that cut through my ribs like a knife. I opened the door just enough to take the bowl she held. Rice and beans, soaked in broth, steaming in the cool morning air. The smell made my stomach cramp with need. “Gracias,” I whispered, but she was already turning away. I didn’t sit. Didn’t savor. I ate stan
Signed Not Chosen Border Crossing
The desert doesn’t forgive. I learned that the hard way. At 3 a.m., with Leo strapped to my chest in a borrowed sling and $19 in my pocket—the last of everything—I walked out of the Tijuana motel and into the dry, cold dark. The streets were empty—just flickering streetlights, stray dogs, and the distant hum of the border wall. I didn’t look back. Because behind me was the last place they’d expect me to be. And ahead? Only dust, danger, and the hope that Ensenada was far enough to disappear. Leo slept against my heart, warm and trusting, as if he didn’t know his life began with a lie. As if he didn’t know the world had already tried to erase him once. I kissed the top of his head. “Hold on, baby,” I whispered. “Mama’s got you.” The bus station was six blocks away. I walked fast, eyes down, hoodie pulled low. Every shadow felt like a threat. Every passing car sounded like Sterling security. But it wasn’t them who found me first. It was my father. His text buzzed
Signed Not Chosen Motel 6, Room 12
$19 didn’t last long. By noon, it was gone—$8 for a one-way bus ticket to Tijuana, $5 for bottled water and a loaf of stale bread, $6 for a room in a concrete-block motel just off the highway. Room 12. No windows that opened. No doorbolt on the door. Just a thin mattress with a dark stain in the corner, a flickering overhead light, and the constant drone of semis on the interstate. Leo slept curled against my chest, his breath warm through my thin shirt. I didn’t move. Didn’t breathe too loud. Just watched the rise and fall of his tiny chest like it was the only proof I wasn’t dreaming. He’s alive. He’s here. And I’m the only thing standing between him and the lie that erased him. I hadn’t slept since the hospital. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw Nate’s face—dark eyes wide, lips parted like he wanted to say something before they took him away. Now, every sound outside made my pulse spike. A car door slamming. Voices in the parking lot. Even the hum of
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