Confrontation in the Nursery
It felt ridiculous, and yet I felt a surge of determination. This was the only way to understand what was really happening in our home. But at 3:00 a.m., as I watched the footage on my phone, that determination morphed into something darker. Rosa was there, tense and alert, pulling Matthew from his crib and wrapping him tightly in a gray blanket. As if—
As if she planned to go somewhere with him.
Before I could react, the bedroom door creaked open, and my heart dropped. Spencer stepped in, wearing black leather gloves that shimmered in the dim light. What was he doing? Behind him, Eleanor followed with a silver medical case. I felt the air rush from my lungs as panic rose. I was frozen, my phone illuminating a nightmare.
“Where is he?” Spencer asked, looking down at the empty crib, confusion painted on his face.
Eleanor’s voice held an edge of frustration. “The maid hid him again.”
Again? My heart stopped. The doctor—another figure in a white lab coat—moved quietly beside them, opening the silver case. I squinted at the screen, my hands trembling as I tried to process what was happening. Inside were syringes, gauze, and a clear vial. A hospital ID bracelet with my son’s name, “Matthew Spencer Montgomery,” lay among the instruments. But underneath his name, another label was taped on—“Donor Patient.”
Every breath I took felt shallow, my heart racing faster. I couldn’t breathe. This was not happening. Eleanor started checking under the bed. “Find him quickly. Valerie wakes up at the slightest noise.”
Spencer glanced toward the teddy bear camera. For a split second, my heart leaped, and I thought he had spotted me. But he just smiled, the kind of smile that twisted my insides.
“Relax, Mom. Tomorrow she’s going to sign the commitment papers. The doctor has already prepared her psychiatric diagnosis.”
Commitment? For who? Me? The doctor’s voice rang in my ears, “Without the boy, I cannot do the procedure.”
