I should’ve sensed something was off the second I unlocked the front door and the house felt unnaturally quiet—far too still for a home with a three-month-old baby inside. No faint fussing. No hungry cries. Not even the soft shifting sounds of a baby kicking in her bassinet.

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“Linda?” I called, dropping my purse onto the entry table. My voice echoed back at me, like the house itself was holding its breath.

My mother-in-law stepped out from the hallway clutching a dish towel, her mouth drawn into that familiar tight expression of annoyance. “She’s fine,” she said quickly. “I fixed her.”

My stomach twisted. “What do you mean you fixed her?”

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