When the hospital said my newborn was gone, my mother-in-law whispered cruel words, and my sister-in-law agreed. My husband turned away in silence. Then my 8-year-old son pointed at the nurse’s cart and asked, “Mom… should I give the doctor what grandma put in the baby’s milk?” The room went still.

The hospital changed its atmosphere in a way I had never witnessed before.
Not panic—something colder. Focused. Controlled. A kind of silence that moved fast.
Phones rang behind closed doors. Security appeared at the entrance. Within minutes, a police officer arrived. Then another.

Margaret was led into the hallway first. She shouted prayers mixed with accusations, her voice echoing as …