She lunged to the left, trying to slip past me.

I caught her by the sleeve of her heavy wool coat.

The fabric felt rough and smelled of stale lavender perfume.

“Let go of me,” she hissed, clawing at my hand.

Her fingernails scratched the back of my wrist, leaving red welts.

Behind us, the heavy double doors of the neonatal unit hissed open.

Two security guards in dark blue uniforms stepped into the room.

A nurse in green scrubs pointed toward my mother.

“That is her,” the nurse said.

“She doesn’t belong here.”

The taller guard, a man with a gray mustache and a heavy belt, stepped forward.

“Ma’am, you need to step away from the child,” he said.

My mother drew herself up to her full height.

“This is my granddaughter,” she said.

“I have the legal right to protect her from these people.”

She held up the crumpled papers in her hand.

The guard did not look at the papers.

He looked at her face, then at me.

“Is this your mother, sir?” he asked.

“Yes,” I said.