She had gone through my things.

She had found my old medical records in our filing cabinet before we fled her house.

“That was years ago,” I said, my voice cracking.

“It’s managed. I love my son. I would never hurt him.”

“I understand this is stressful,” Ms. Vance said, her tone smooth and unbothered.

“But we have to take these allegations seriously, especially when a child has been hospitalized for failure to thrive.”

She took a step closer to the bassinet.

“I need to conduct an assessment of your living situation,” she said.

“And I will need to speak with the attending physician regarding the child’s current condition.”

Just then, the door swung open.

Leo walked in, his face pale and his phone clutched tightly in his hand.

He stopped dead when he saw Ms. Vance standing over Sam’s bassinet.

“Grace?” he asked, looking between us.

“What’s going on?”

“Leo,” I choked out, tears finally spilling over my eyelashes.

“She’s from Child Protective Services.”

Leo’s eyes widened.

He took a step forward, his defensive instincts immediately taking over.

“Who called you?” he demanded, his voice low and dangerous.