Leo was still out in the hallway.

I could hear his muffled voice through the heavy wood of the door, still arguing with the bank.

He had no idea what was happening inside this room.

“My husband is right outside,” I said, my voice trembling.

“He can tell you. His mother is trying to take our baby because we threatened to report her.”

Ms. Vance didn’t look convinced.

She turned a page on her clipboard.

“The caller provided detailed accounts of your recent behavior,” she said.

“They described several instances where you refused to feed the child, claiming the food was contaminated.”

“Because it was,” I cried.

“Josephine left formula sitting out in the heat for days. She was trying to make him sick so we couldn’t leave.”

Ms. Vance’s face remained a mask of professional neutrality.

She looked from me to the sleeping baby, then back again.

“According to the file, you have a history of anxiety,” she said.

“Is that correct, Mrs. Sullivan?”

My mouth went dry.

How did she know about my postpartum anxiety diagnosis from two years ago?

Josephine.