My hands began to tremble.

Without wasting another second, I grabbed him, rushed to my car, and drove straight to the hospital—praying I was overreacting, but terrified that I wasn’t.

The drive felt endless.

Little Oliver cried the entire time—sharp, desperate cries that echoed through the car and made my heart ache. I kept glancing at him through the rearview mirror, gripping the steering wheel so tightly my knuckles turned white.

“Hang on, sweetheart,” I whispered. “Grandma’s getting you help.”

When I reached the emergency entrance, I didn’t even park properly. I rushed inside with him in my arms.

A nurse at the front desk immediately stood up.

“What’s going on?”

“My grandson,” I said breathlessly. “He won’t stop crying, and I found a bruise on his stomach. He’s only two months old.”

Her expression changed instantly.

“Come with me.”

Within moments, we were in an exam room. Another nurse gently took Oliver and placed him on a padded table.

The second they touched his stomach, he screamed.

“That’s where the bruise is,” I said, my voice shaking.

The nurse lifted his onesie—and her face hardened.

“I’ll get the doctor.”

My stomach dropped.

Something was very wrong.