Jonah woke at the pitch of her voice and let out a small wail, his tiny arms thrashing.

Brooke tried to push out of the chair to reach him, leaning forward, wincing, her hand stretching for the bassinet.

Lorraine moved faster. She stepped between Brooke and the crib.

“Let me get him, please,” Brooke begged, her voice cracking.

“No,” Lorraine said flatly.

Then, with a deliberate sweep of her arm, she knocked the water pitcher off the table. It shattered across the hardwood, water spreading fast into the rug, and Brooke’s orange pill bottle clattered after it, popping open, scattering her pain medication into the wet glass.