“I already called my lawyer,” Colton said. “We’re requesting the footage Monday morning.”
For the first time since my divorce, I felt like I was doing something right. My sister had crossed the line, and it was time for consequences.
The next two weeks were a whirlwind of activity. Colton and I worked together like we were on some kind of mission, which I guess we were. We were fighting to save his daughter from a mother who clearly didn’t deserve her.
Colton’s lawyer moved fast. By Wednesday, they had already filed paperwork for custody modification and submitted a request for airport footage.
“The fact that she left a 5-year-old alone for 30 minutes is going to look very bad,” the lawyer said. “Add that to the other evidence Colton has, and we have a strong case.”
While we waited for the legal process, Colton showed me more of what he’d discovered about Maribel over the past six months.
“Look at this,” he said, opening Maribel’s Instagram on his phone.
She posted pictures from parties almost every night. And in almost every photo, she had a drink in her hand. Wine, cocktails, beer, shots. It was like she was documenting her drinking problem for the whole world.
“She posted these while she was supposed to be taking care of our daughter,” Colton said. “Look at the timestamps. This one was posted at 2:00 a.m. on a Wednesday.”
“Who was watching your daughter while she was out drinking?” I asked.
He nodded grimly.
There was more. The same private investigator had caught Maribel drunk multiple times. He had four different videos of Maribel stumbling out of bars, getting behind the wheel of her car, with her daughter in the backseat.
“This video is from three weeks ago,” Colton said. “Watch this.”
The video showed Maribel stumbling, dropping her keys, barely able to walk straight. The camera zoomed in. My niece was sleeping in the backseat. She drove home drunk with her own daughter in the car.
I felt nauseous. “Why haven’t you called the police? This is dangerous.”
“I wanted to build a complete case. One incident might not be enough, but a pattern — that’s undeniable.”
The investigator had also documented Maribel’s spending. $4,800 on clothes, $1,900 on salon treatments, $1,200 at bars and restaurants — all within two months.
“Remember,” Colton said, “she hasn’t worked in two months. This is all from child support. Money meant for our daughter.”
“What about the surgery?” I asked quietly.
Colton pulled up more files. “$9,500 for breast implants, paid two weeks after I sent her child support.”
Meanwhile, the investigator had taken photos of my niece. Clothes too small, shoes with holes. Maribel was spending child support on herself while her daughter wore rags.
But the worst was yet to come. While Maribel vacationed in Maui, posting tropical selfies, she sent exactly one text message asking about her child in two weeks. One.
I showed Colton. “That’s it,” he said. “No calls, no video chats.”
I was watching my niece every day, and she was happier than I had ever seen her. She lit up when Colton visited, almost daily.
