"And you," she spat, her tone like venom, "don't forget who signs your paycheck. You work for my son, Paul, and not her. Don't even think about crossing me."
Eleanor then hugged the baby so tightly that his little face scrunched up, and then the wailing began. His tiny cries pierced right through me.
"Mom, the baby's crying," I said gently. "Let me hold him for a bit."
But she took two steps back like I was covered in disease.
"You're soaked in blood and smell like it, too. I'm not letting that filth touch my grandson," she said, refusing even to meet my eyes.
Then, without another word, Eleanor turned and walked right out of the room, taking the baby with her.
I turned to Paul, my voice low and steady. "Why won't your mom let me see the baby? Did something happen while I was in surgery that she doesn't want me to know about?"
He kept his face neutral, but his eyes darted.
"She's just worried about you," he said carefully. "You barely made it through childbirth. She wants you to rest."