Grandpa did not beat Valerie.

That matters.

The sentence sounded like a threat.

The foot step had been retaliation.

But after he caught her wrist, he stopped.

Then turned toward me.

“Evan.”

I was shaking.

Leo screamed against my chest.

Grandpa’s expression changed immediately.

“Can he breathe?”

“Yes.”

“Are you sure?”

“I think.”

Not good enough.

He took out his phone.

Called 911.

Then told me:

“Sit down.”

“I’m fine.”

“You were hit with a bat.”

“I’m fine.”

“Evan.”

That voice.

I sat.

Leo would not let go of my shirt.

His fingers were tangled so tightly in the fabric that the paramedic later had to help loosen them.

Police arrived first.

Then EMS.

Leo was evaluated immediately.

Pulse.

Oxygen.

Breathing.

Neurological response.

He had no visible injury.

No bruising around the face.

No vomiting.

No loss of consciousness that anyone could establish.

But because of what I had seen, they transported him to the children’s hospital for observation.

I went too.

My shoulder and back hurt badly.

Imaging later showed deep bruising and a small nondisplaced fracture of one rib.

No spinal injury.

No internal bleeding.

Valerie went to a different hospital.

The lamp had caused a scalp laceration requiring several stitches.

The fall damaged the vanity more than it damaged her.

Grandpa’s kick caused bruising along her hip.

His foot on hers caused a minor toe injury.

Nothing life-threatening.

Three injured people.

One baby who appeared physically unharmed.

And a nursery that looked like something from a crime show.

At the hospital, Leo finally stopped crying.

I held him in a rocking chair.

He touched my face.

Not because he could see it clearly.

Because touch was how he checked who had him.

His fingers found my nose.

Then my mouth.

Then the bruise forming near my jaw.

I whispered:

“It’s me.”

His body relaxed.

That destroyed me.

Because I realized he had been waiting for a familiar voice.