“For heaven’s sake,” he snapped one morning. “Why does she have a meltdown every time I set foot in here?”
“She’s just a baby, Michael,” I replied, trying to keep my voice steady. “Babies cry for all sorts of reasons.”
“Other babies don’t act like they’re being tortured,” he countered. “Maybe your parenting is the problem.”
His words stung like a physical blow.
In stark contrast, my mother-in-law, Margaret, seemed to have a magic touch with Olivia. She arrived at our door at 7:30 sharp every morning, a picture of composure and competence, wielding the steady confidence of a woman who had spent her career as a nurse.
“Go and focus on your career,” she would reassure me. “Grandma has everything under control.”
I desperately wanted to take her at her word.
However, strange inconsistencies began to surface—small things, like finding Olivia in a different outfit than the one I’d chosen, while the original clothes seemed to vanish into thin air without a trace.
I kept insisting to myself that I was simply being paranoid.
That was, until we went to the clinic.
During the checkup, Olivia sat peacefully in my lap. Her vitals were perfect, and her growth was right on track. The doctor was pleasant and smiling—right up until the moment he asked Michael to take her so he could finish the physical exam.
