I h:id my career as a judge from my mother-in-law. After my C-section, she stormed in with adoption papers, demanding one twin for her infe:rtile daughter. I clutched my babies and pressed the panic button.
“Karen can’t have children,” she said flatly. “She needs an heir. You’ll give her one of the twins. The boy. You can keep the girl.”
For several seconds, I couldn’t even comprehend what she had said.
“You’ve lost your mind,” I whispered. “They are my children.”
“Stop being hysterical,” she snapped, moving toward Noah’s bassinet. “You’re clearly overwhelmed. Karen is downstairs waiting.”
When her hand reached toward him, something primal ignited inside me.
“Do not touch my son!”
Ignoring the searing pain from my incision, I pushed myself forward. She spun and struck me across the face. My head hit the bed rail with a dull crack.
“Ingrate!” she hissed, lifting Noah as he began wailing. “I’m his grandmother. I decide what’s best for him.”
With shaking fingers, I slammed the emergency security button mounted beside my bed.
Alarms sounded instantly. Within moments, hospital security rushed in, led by Chief Daniel Ruiz.
Margaret’s demeanor transformed in a blink.
“She’s unstable!” she cried dramatically. “She tried to hurt the baby!”
Chief Ruiz took in the scene—my split lip, my fragile state post-surgery—then the elegantly dressed woman clutching my crying son.
His gaze met mine.
He stopped cold.
“Judge Carter?” he murmured.
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