My heart slammed against my ribs so hard it felt dangerous, like it might break something inside me. They took the bottle. They removed the feeding cart.
They documented my statement with calm, practiced voices. The toxicology report came back with brutal speed. The substance found in the milk wouldn’t have harmed an adult.
But for a newborn—especially one only hours old—it was lethal. A prescription medication Margaret had taken for years. Crushed.
Measured. Mixed deliberately. It wasn’t an accident.
Margaret said she had been “protecting the family.”
She said my bloodline was weak. She said my history of depression meant I would destroy another child. She said God would forgive her.
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