When I held the twins, they slept and ate. Every afternoon at four, Dr. Cross arrived. By five, the screaming returned.
Evelyn whispered to me one evening, “This isn’t right. Every time that woman leaves, it gets worse.”
Then, during a stormy night, Dr. Cross dropped something in the driveway—a tiny glass vial.
I picked it up. The label was faint but readable.
Ephedrine / Digoxin – 0.5 mg
I looked it up.
My stomach dropped.
She wasn’t treating them. She was poisoning them—inducing symptoms so she would remain indispensable.
I ran to Nicholas.
“She’s hurting them on purpose,” I said, shaking. “Please—save your daughters.”
Before lab results came back, Dr. Cross returned, frantic. When Nicholas confronted her, the mask shattered.
“You can’t stop treatment!” she screamed. “They’ll die without me!”
She grabbed a heavy paperweight.
I lunged.
We hit the floor hard. She fought viciously, but I held on until the police arrived.
At the hospital, real doctors took over.
“They’ll recover,” the chief physician said. “Another week, and they wouldn’t have.”
Dr. Cross was arrested.
The nursery is quiet now—filled with laughter instead of pain.
Lily and Grace are healthy, chubby, alive.
I’m no longer the maid.