One afternoon in July, both boys had fevers.
Their faces were flushed, their little bodies weak.
I checked the formula container—almost empty.
Up above, the pantry was packed with food Diane had bought for a neighborhood barbecue.
I knew she’d scream if I touched anything.
But when Eli kept sucking on an empty bottle, crying harder and harder…
I added one extra scoop.
Just one.
I thought maybe it would help him sleep.
Diane walked in before I could even close the lid.
She ripped the bottle from my hands, spilling milk everywhere.
Then she started screaming—accusing me of stealing, wasting money, even trying to poison the babies.
