His eyes—large, dark, far too alert—stared at nothing. He wasn’t really crying anymore. Just releasing shallow, painful whimpers that made something inside Maria tighten.
“Sensitive skin again,” Maria muttered bitterly.
After twenty-five years in pediatric care, she’d learned a cruel truth: poor children suffered from lack of resources, while rich children often suffered from appearances.
Oliver was dressed in a pristine white designer onesie—organic, imported, aggressively branded. His mother, Vanessa Harrington, had shown it off that morning like jewelry.
“It’s perfect for when Ethan gets home,” she’d said, admiring her reflection, nails immaculate, smile camera-ready.
Maria had gently suggested plain cotton. Seamless. Soft.
Vanessa had waved it away. “This is the best money can buy.”
Now the baby had been screaming for three straight hours.
When Maria finally lifted him, something felt wrong. It wasn’t fever. Not gas. Not vaccine soreness.
Every movement seemed to hurt him.
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