Everyone thought the baby was just “difficult” because he cried at night—until the Black maid quietly lifted the corner of the mattress and froze.

The “difficult” nights. The way Evelyn refused to come in. The perfume.

Evelyn was coming in here. Drunk. She was drunk, and she was jealous. She was jealous of the baby that took her husband’s attention, that ruined her body, that kept her awake.

She wasn’t comforting him. She was tormenting him.

The biting. It was an act of animalistic aggression. The perfume was poured onto the mattress to mask the smell of the vodka on her breath and the alcohol she likely spilled.

Naomi looked at the journal. She opened it to the last entry, scrawled in erratic, shaky handwriting.

He won’t stop screaming. He sounds like a siren. I just want to silence him. I want to squeeze him until he pops. I want my life back. I want Richard back. Why won’t he just STOP?

Naomi dropped the book. Her hands were shaking uncontrollably.

This wasn’t just a bad mother. This was a woman in the grip of a violent, psychotic break, fueled by alcohol and hidden by wealth.

And the baby was her punching bag.

“No more,” Naomi whispered. Her voice shook, but the resolve in her chest was like iron. “No more.”

She heard a floorboard creak in the hallway.

Naomi spun around.

Evelyn was standing in the doorway.

She wasn’t the tired, annoyed woman from earlier. Her eyes were glazed, unfocused. She was swaying slightly. In her hand, she held another bottle of Midnight Rose.

“What are you doing?” Evelyn slurred. Her voice was a low growl. “I told you to fix him.”