Chapter 4 - THE OTHER BABY
I called Emma before police could tell me not to.
Maybe I shouldn’t have.
But she answered.
“Sarah?”
“Where’s Lucy?”
Her tone changed immediately.
“With me.”
“Is she okay?”
“Yes. Why?”
I closed my eyes.
“Did my mother give her anything yesterday?”
Silence.
“What?”
“Emma, please.”
“She gave me a tea.”
“For you?”
“No.”
My heart stopped.
“For Lucy.”
“What tea?”
“She said it was for gas.”
“Did you give it to her?”
“A little.”
My knees nearly gave out.
“Call your pediatrician right now.”
“Sarah, what’s happening?”
“My mother is in police custody after doing something dangerous to Noah.”
Silence.
Then Emma started crying.
Lucy was evaluated.
She was fine.
Thank God.
The tea appeared to contain ingredients that could be unsafe for an infant depending on concentration, but Emma had given only a tiny amount.
Still.
Mom had been handing out homemade infant remedies.
Without training.
Without permission.
Without telling me.
Police collected the remainder.
Then another mother came forward.
Then another.
Word spread quietly through the neighborhood.
Not online.
Through investigators.
Mom had offered remedies to four families in the last year.
Most refused.
One used a mild skin preparation.
No known harm.
But the pattern mattered.
Then the hospital psychiatrist asked to evaluate Mom.
Not because dangerous behavior automatically meant mental illness.
Because her reasoning around Noah had been profoundly disconnected from reality.
She had watched him cry in danger while insisting the treatment was working.
That needed evaluation.
I felt something complicated.
Anger.
Fear.
And relief that someone else would finally try to understand what was happening inside her head.
Mom refused at first.
Then agreed after her attorney spoke with her.
Meanwhile, Mark barely left Noah’s side.
His anger toward my mother became something physical in the room.
He never threatened her.
Never demanded revenge.
But every time someone said “Diane,” his shoulders tightened.
One night he said:
“I don’t know if I can ever let her near him again.”
I answered:
“You don’t have to.”
He looked at me.
“Neither do you.”
That hurt.
Because she was still my mother.
Then:
“I know.”
Noah improved slowly.
Doctors expected lasting scars but were cautiously optimistic about healing and development.
I held him for hours.
Every sound made me panic.
Every time he slept too deeply, I checked his breathing.
A nurse finally said:
“You’re allowed to sleep.”
I almost laughed.
Apparently I wasn’t sure.
Then Detective Morales called.
“We searched Diane’s house under warrant.”
I closed my eyes.
“What did you find?”
“A locked cabinet.”
Inside:
Old medical pamphlets.
Homemade remedy supplies.
Michael’s baby clothes.
His hospital bracelet.
And dozens of letters.
“From who?”
“Your father.”
Dad had been writing Mom letters about Michael for years.
Never mailed.
Never shown to me.
One began:
Diane, you have turned grief into a religion because admitting Mom was wrong would mean admitting we were wrong too.
I stopped breathing.
Then Morales continued.
“There’s one letter you need to know about.”
“What?”
“Your father believed your mother tried the oven idea once before.”
My entire body went cold.
“With Michael?”
“No.”
“Then who?”
“You.”
I couldn’t speak.
According to Dad’s letter, when I was six months old and sick with chills, he came home to find Mom warming the oven.
May you like
He stopped her before she put me inside.
She had tried this with me too.
