He stiffened. He cried before she even touched him. He cried when she entered — not when she left.
Doctors had called it “attachment confusion.”
Grace, who had raised two sons of her own and cared for children for over twenty years, knew better.
Victoria lifted Ethan into her arms. He arched his back, terrified, gripping the bear tighter.
And then Grace saw it again.
Victoria’s right hand slipped casually into the pocket of her silk robe. A tiny movement. Her thumb pressed something.
Ethan’s cry changed instantly.
Not fear.
Pain.
A piercing scream ripped from his throat. His body jolted as if shocked. Yet he clung to the teddy bear — the very object hurting him — because it was the only comfort he knew.
Victoria rocked him calmly, almost serenely, whispering loving words.
Thirty seconds later, her thumb moved again inside the pocket.
Ethan’s cries softened into exhausted hiccups. Within a minute, he fell asleep on her shoulder.
“See?” Victoria said smoothly to Grace. “He just needs his mom.”
Grace said nothing.
After Victoria left the nursery, Grace adjusted the blanket in the crib. Her hand brushed against the teddy bear.
It was hot.
Not warm from Ethan’s body.
Hot.