“Easy, sweetheart,” Maria whispered, laying him on the changing table. “Just for a second.”
Vanessa was on a call—rarely distracted, but today fully absorbed. For the first time, Maria had the baby completely to herself.
She unfastened the onesie.
The moment the fabric lifted from Oliver’s skin, his entire body relaxed.
Not gradually. Instantly.
He released a deep, shuddering breath and went still. His eyes locked onto Maria with an expression that wasn’t gratitude—babies don’t do that—but something she understood all the same.
It stopped hurting.
Maria swallowed hard.
Oliver’s skin was covered in tiny red marks—across his chest, his back, his thighs. Some faint. Some angry and scraped. The pattern was too precise.
Her hands began to shake as she turned the onesie inside out.
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