“My mother took care of my wife for four days after she gave birth. When I came back, my baby was burning with fever, and my wife whispered, ‘They wouldn’t let me call you.’ Then the real reason behind all the family hatred came to light.”

I didn’t even drop my bags, I just bolted toward the bedroom with my heart hammering against my ribs.

Amy was sprawled out on the bed, unconscious, her nightgown stained and her hair a matted, tangled mess of knots.

Beside her, little Sam was wrapped in a grimy, stiff blanket, his skin flushed a terrifying red with a fever that made him tremble, crying without even enough moisture to form tears.

“Amy, wake up, please!”

I shook her shoulders, but she didn’t even stir, her body limp and unresponsive.

I touched my son, and the feeling of his burning, dry skin pierced through me like a physical wound.

His lips were cracked, his diaper was soaked and neglected, and there were angry, red marks around his neck.

I let out a raw, guttural scream that probably woke up the entire floor.

My mother shuffled into the doorway, yawning and putting on a fake, startled expression.

“What in the world is happening in here, Mark?”

“What is happening?” I roared, turning on her with eyes that I knew looked insane. “I am the one asking you that question!”

Karen sauntered into the room, looking at me with a look of pure, unadulterated annoyance.

“You really need to stop being so incredibly dramatic, Mark, because babies cry and new mothers need to sleep, and you’re coming in here causing a massive scene over nothing.”

I looked from their pile of cozy blankets and junk food to my wife’s split, bleeding lips and my son’s fragile, burning frame.