Noah’s tiny body trembled in my arms as he cried, his face red and wet with tears. I could barely breathe. My mind kept repeating the same horrifying thought: Someone had hurt my grandson.
The bruise was unmistakable. Dark purple. Slightly swollen. And shaped in a way that made my stomach twist — the faint outline of fingers pressed too hard against delicate skin.
My hands shook so badly I had to steady myself against the changing table.
“Who did this to you?” I whispered, my voice barely more than air.
Noah screamed again, louder this time, a cry so desperate it made my heart ache.
That was it.
I didn’t think about anything else. Not coats. Not shoes. Not calling my son.
I grabbed the nearest blanket, wrapped Noah carefully, and rushed out of the house.
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