My skin went ice.
I moved fast and silent, barefoot, the way you move when you’re scared of what you’ll see and more scared you’ll be too late to change it.
When I pushed open the nursery door, the room was lit by the dim amber of the nightlight shaped like a little moon. It painted everything in soft edges—crib rails, rocking chair, the basket of stuffed animals.
And there, standing beside the crib like she belonged there, was my mother-in-law.
Janice Caldwell wore her robe tied tight, hair wrapped in a towel like she’d just washed it, even though it was almost two in the morning. Her posture was stiff and self-righteous, like she’d come in to inspect the room.
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