Then, her phone, sitting in her purse on the floor, began to ring.

I reached down into the vinyl purse and pulled out the vibrating phone.

The screen showed a private number.

I pressed the receiver to my ear, my knuckles white against the plastic.

“What did you do to the cradle?” I demanded.

My mother’s voice came through the speaker, low and perfectly calm.

“I made sure it was prepared for my grandchild,” she said.

Megan let out a sharp, ragged gasp on the gurney beside me.

Her hand twitched, her fingers clawing at the orange blanket.

“You poured lead sealant on it,” I said, my voice shaking. “That is poison.”

“It is a protective barrier, Jake,” she replied.

“You don’t know what it takes to keep a family safe.”

The paramedic leaned over Megan, shining a penlight into her eyes.

“Pupils are sluggish,” the paramedic muttered to his partner.

“We need to push another IV,” the second paramedic said, rummaging through a drawer.

On the phone, my mother let out a soft, dry laugh.

“You always were too weak to appreciate my help,” she said.