Her voice was flat, like she was reading a weather report.

“She alleges that you, Grace, are suffering from severe postpartum psychosis and are currently unstable.”

I fell back against the vinyl hospital chair.

The cheap material squeaked under my weight.

“That is a lie,” Leo said, stepping between Ms. Vance and my chair. “My mother kept Grace locked in a room. She starved my wife and neglected my son.”

“Mr. Sullivan, please do not raise your voice,” Ms. Vance warned, though Leo hadn’t raised it at all.

She wrote something down with a heavy black pen.

“Your mother’s report states that you are in denial about your wife’s mental state,” she continued.

“She claims you are enabling her and putting the child at risk by refusing medical psychiatric intervention for Grace.”

I looked at Sam, sleeping under the harsh fluorescent lights.

His tiny arm was taped to a board to keep his IV line straight.

He looked so small, his cheeks still pale from the dehydration that had nearly taken his life.

“Look at him,” I sobbed, pointing at our baby. “Look at what they did to him.”