“Can we call the police?” I asked.

Leo shook his head.

“Legally, her name was on the account,” he said.

“The bank won’t do anything. They’ll say it’s a civil dispute.”

A low hum vibrated through the pediatric ward.

Outside the window, a grey Des Moines drizzle smeared the glass.

The room smelled of floor wax, bleach, and rubbing alcohol.

I reached out and took Leo’s hand.

His skin was ice-cold.

“We’ll find a way,” I said, trying to sound brave for both of us.

But the weight in my chest felt like lead.

“She wants to starve us out, Grace,” Leo whispered.

“She wants us to beg her for help.”

“I will never beg her,” I said.

“Not after what she did to Sam. Not after how she treated me.”

Leo looked at the floor, his jaw tight.

He was a transportation supervisor; he was used to solving logistics problems and managing crises.

But this wasn’t a scheduling conflict.

This was his mother stripping away our ability to survive.

The monitor next to Sam’s bassinet gave a soft, rhythmic beep.