My mother-in-law stepped out from the hallway clutching a dish towel, her mouth drawn into that familiar tight expression of annoyance. “She’s fine,” she said quickly. “I fixed her.”
My stomach twisted. “What do you mean you fixed her?”
“She wouldn’t stop moving,” Linda snapped, as though my daughter’s squirming was a personal offense. “I tried to take a nap, and she kept flailing. Babies shouldn’t move like that. It’s not normal.”
I didn’t wait for another word. I rushed down the hallway toward the guest room—the one where Linda insisted Sophie should sleep because “the nursery is too far from the kitchen.”
The sight stopped me cold.
Sophie lay on the bed—not in a crib, not in any safe sleeping space. A scarf—Linda’s floral one she always wore to church—was stretched across my baby’s torso and tied underneath the mattress, pinning her down. Another strip of fabric held one tiny arm in place. Sophie’s head was turned to the side, her cheek pressed into the bedding.
Her lips were blue.
