It was just after 6 p.m. when I stepped inside. The sound hit me immediately—sharp, relentless, echoing down the hallway. This wasn’t ordinary newborn fussing. This was fear.
“Laura?” I called.
No response.
I found my wife at the kitchen table, shoulders trembling, hands covering her face. Her eyes were swollen and empty, like she hadn’t slept in days.
“He won’t stop,” she whispered. “I fed him, changed him, rocked him. I even drove around the block. Nothing helps.”
My chest tightened. Our son, Oliver, was only three weeks old.
“Okay,” I said, forcing my voice steady. “Let’s check on him together.”
As we headed toward the nursery, Laura slowed. “I had to step outside,” she said quietly. “The crying was too much. I needed air.”
That should have been my first warning.
The nursery door stood slightly ajar. Afternoon light spilled through the blinds, and Oliver’s cries sounded strangely consistent—almost mechanical. I went straight to the crib and lifted the blanket.
There was no weight.
I pulled it back fully.
The crying stopped.
Inside the crib sat a small speaker, its light still blinking, and a folded note taped to the mattress.
My stomach dropped.