My knife froze mid-cut.
“What pills, sweetheart?” I asked, trying to keep my voice calm even as a chill crept through my chest.
“The ones Grandma says are vitamins,” she murmured. “She gives me one every night before bed.”
My stomach dropped. My mother-in-law, Margaret, had been staying with us for nearly three weeks while recovering from knee surgery. She had insisted on helping with my daughter Lily, saying she wanted more time to bond with her granddaughter. I’d watched them read stories together, brush Lily’s hair, laugh in the living room. I’d told myself how lucky we were to have family close.
Now my hands were shaking.
“Lily,” I said softly, kneeling so we were face to face, “can you bring Mommy the bottle Grandma uses?”
Her eyes widened. “Am I in trouble?”
“Not at all,” I said quickly, pulling her into a hug. “You did the right thing by telling me.”
She ran to her bedroom and came back holding an orange prescription bottle. The kind you see at every pharmacy. The kind that should never have been anywhere near a child.
When I read the label, my heart started pounding so hard it hurt.
The medication name was unfamiliar—long, clinical, complicated. But the patient’s name printed underneath was unmistakable.
Margaret Collins.
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