The ride felt endless. Every second stretched tight in my chest. I kept glancing at Oliver in the rearview mirror, my heartbeat loud in my ears.

“Hold on, sweetheart,” I whispered. “Grandma’s getting you help.”

When I reached the emergency entrance, I didn’t even park properly. I grabbed him and rushed through the sliding doors.

A nurse at reception stood up immediately. “What’s going on?”

“My grandson,” I said breathlessly. “He won’t stop crying—and I just found a bruise. He’s only two months old.”

Her expression changed instantly. “Come with me.”

Within seconds, we were in a small exam room. Another nurse gently placed Oliver on the table.

The moment they touched his stomach, he screamed.

“That’s where it is,” I said, pointing with shaking hands.

The nurse moved his clothing aside—and froze.

“I’m getting the doctor,” she said quietly.

My stomach dropped.

Something was wrong.

Dr. Harris arrived quickly. He was calm, middle-aged, with tired but kind eyes. He examined Oliver carefully, pressing lightly around the bruise.

Oliver cried out again.

“When did you notice this?” he asked.

“About ten minutes ago,” I said. “He suddenly started crying—I thought it was nothing until I saw it.”