“Call the police,” he whispered urgently.
I stared at him, stunned. “What? Why?”
His face had gone completely white.
“Didn’t you see it?” he said. “That baby is—”
I didn’t let him finish. My hands were shaking as I pulled out my phone and dialed.
My sister Emily gave birth early Tuesday morning. By afternoon, my husband Daniel and I arrived at the hospital carrying flowers and balloons, excited and exhausted in the best way. It was her first child. We were all emotional. Happy. Unprepared for what was about to happen.
The maternity ward smelled of disinfectant and clean linen. Emily looked drained but radiant, her hair loosely tied back, her eyes glowing despite the fatigue.
“Come see him,” she said proudly.
A nurse rolled the bassinet closer.
I leaned in first. The baby slept peacefully, wrapped snugly in a white blanket, tiny lips parted slightly. Nothing seemed strange. Just a beautiful newborn.
Then Daniel stepped closer.
Instead of smiling, his posture stiffened. He froze, staring at the baby for several long seconds.
Before I could ask what was wrong, he grabbed my wrist and pulled me backward—hard. Flowers slipped from my hands as he dragged me into the hallway and shut the door.