Crungbracrin Chiltflultswen Facebook ad: “2026's Hottest Book Click To Read, Grab Your Copy Now”

About this ad

Meta Ad Library ID

1532476102250080

Platforms

Facebook, Instagram, Audience Network and Threads

Relaunches

0

Niche

Parenting & Kids

How we count

Ad text

My ex-husband had just called in a report for drug use and child abuse. I had my clean test results laid out on the table, waiting. This knock on the door… I’d died once because of it already. In my last life, I cried and pleaded, let them search my apartment, and swore over and over that I had never touched drugs. They still took my daughter away. On her way to the custody hearing, my mother died in a car crash. With nothing left to live for, I ended my life. But when I opened my eyes again, I had nine minutes until the investigators knocked on my door. Nine minutes. Enough time to fix the first mistake I made last time. I wasn’t going to waste my breath playing the victim. I was going to document every single setup, creating a paper trail no one could erase. I opened my wallet and pulled out the medical report I’d received just that day. It was from a physical for a new job. Drug test: negative. The timing was perfect. The source, unimpeachable. When the doorbell rang, I didn’t panic. I set the report neatly on the corner of the table and opened the door. “Hello.” I kept my voice even. “Before you ask me anything, I’ll need to see your identification.” The woman outside stiffened. I kept my hand out. “And the case number for this investigation.” She had no idea that number would become the start of a nightmare for my ex-husband and his friends. … A dull ache pulsed in my stomach. For the past few years, I’d worked the front desk at a clinic by day and cleaned a restaurant at night. Coffee was often dinner, and I usually swallowed painkillers on an empty stomach. But right now, the pain only made me sharper. The caseworker stared at my outstretched hand, frozen for a solid two seconds. I supposed most people didn’t stay calm when Child Protective Services showed up at their door in the middle of the night—didn’t cry, didn’t argue, didn’t rush to defend themselves, but asked for ID and a case number first. “Of course.” She unclipped her badge and held it out. I didn’t just glance at it. I noted her name, department, and ID number, then took out my phone and, with her permission, photographed it for my records. Her expression sharpened, appraising me, but she still opened her folder. “The case number is CPS-42719.” I wrote it down, one digit at a time. The number landed on the page like a nail. And suddenly, I could hear Nora crying. Not now—in my last life. Two caseworkers stood in the living room, one on either side of her, holding her hands. She strained toward me with all her might, crying until her voice was raw. “Mommy! I want Mommy!” I was on my knees, clutching the caseworker’s pant leg, begging for one more chance to explain. But all they saw was the mess in my apartment, my shaking hands, my tear-streaked face, and an anonymous report claiming I used drugs, lost control, and left my child home alone for long stretches. They noted my “emotional breakdown” in their report. Later, my mother called Grant. She didn’t understand custody law, or evidence, or any of those cold legal terms. All she knew was how to lower her voice and beg. “Grant, Mara’s a good mother. You know that.” “Please, don’t take Nora away. She can’t live without her mother.” On the other end of the line, Grant said, his voice gentle, that he was only doing what was best for our daughter. Later, I saw my mother’s car on the news. The front end was crushed. The windshield was a spiderweb of glass shattered across the road. The reporter said a sixty-two-year-old woman had died at the scene of an accident while driving into the city. Her name scrolled across the bottom of the screen. Elena Reyes. At the time, a pile of pills sat on the table in front of me. I swallowed them one by one. The last thing I remembered was Nora’s voice calling for me as they led her away. A sharp spasm twisted through my stomach. I grabbed the doorframe, my palm pressing into the cold wood. The pain was real. The case......

Where the ad sends people

read.novelreadingstation.com

2026's Hottest Book 🍷🔥 Click To Read — Grab Your Copy Now 👈