“She doesn’t mean anything by it.”
When our first son, Noah, was born, her scrutiny intensified. She examined his grip, his eyes, his temperament, searching for flaws she seemed almost disappointed not to find. Then I got pregnant again.
This time, she stopped pretending. She talked openly about risk. About genetics.
About how irresponsible it was to “double down” on what she called uncertainty. Evan was born a few weeks early. Small, but perfect.
Healthy. Margaret stared at him through the incubator glass with cold calculation. “He’s frail,” she whispered.
Not concern. Judgment. The toxicology report came back quickly.
Too quickly. The substance found in the milk was a prescription sedative. One Margaret had been taking for years.
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