“Ma’am, keep your hands where we can see them,” one of the guards said, his voice controlled but firm as he approached me, his eyes scanning my face as if trying to decide whether I was a threat or a victim.
“She’s lying,” I said, my voice unsteady but determined, because even though my throat felt tight and my breath came unevenly, there was a clarity inside me that refused to bend. “She tried to take my baby.”
Across the room, my mother-in-law let out a sharp, theatrical gasp, placing a hand dramatically over her chest as though she had been the one wronged.
“She’s not thinking clearly,” she snapped, her tone rising quickly as she gestured toward me. “The surgery affected her—she’s confused, emotional. Look at her.”
One of the guards stepped closer, his posture tightening as if preparing for escalation.
“Ma’am, we’re going to need you to hand over the child.”
I tightened my grip instinctively, pulling my son closer, my fingers pressing protectively against his small back.
“Don’t,” I whispered, my voice low but steady.
