I remember the way Eleanor clutched his score report in her hand, her voice dripping with blame as she shoved the failure in my face.
"If your selfish mother hadn't refused to register you under her name, you wouldn't have to suffer through this awful repeat year, my poor grandson."
That was the moment everything snapped. How dare she blame me when it was she who had refused to let my son be registered under me in the first place?
Right then, all the bottled-up resentment, disappointment, and bitterness finally erupted.
My son, my own flesh and blood, grabbed a fruit knife and lunged at me.
The blade glinted, a flash of silver coming straight for my face.
I barely had time to scream. "No—!"
"Patient is regaining consciousness. The newborn's vitals are stable. Surgery complete."
The anesthesiologist's voice floated near my ear, pulling me back into the light.
My eyes flew open in a panic, my heart pounding as I scanned the room, desperately searching for my newborn son.
"Bring the newborn out so the family can see," I heard one of the nurses say. "Seriously, doesn't that old woman ever get tired? She's been yelling for two straight hours."