Inside the plastic dome, my daughter lay beneath a blue phototherapy light.

She was so small, her tiny chest rising and falling in rapid, shallow breaths.

Wires connected her chest to the monitors.

A feeding tube was taped to her nose.

My mother was staring down at her with a calm, chilling smile.

“You’re so beautiful,” my mother whispered.

Her voice carried through the gap in the door frame.

“You look just like your father did when he was small.”

She tapped the plastic dome with her fingernail.

The sound was sharp, like a fingernail on glass.

My daughter stirred, her tiny fists clenching.

I pushed the door open.

The hinges groaned.

My mother didn’t jump.

She slowly turned her head toward me, her smile remaining perfectly intact.

“Jake,” she said. “I didn’t expect you to find this ward so quickly.”

“Get away from her,” I said.

My voice was low, but it trembled with a rage I had never felt before.

She sighed and turned her full body to face me.

She tucked the documents under her arm.

“Don’t be dramatic, Jake,” she said. “I’m just visiting my granddaughter.”