Chapter 1: The Flare of Intuition
They say a mother’s instinct is a compass, but a grandmother’s instinct is a warning flare. It doesn’t just point toward trouble; it illuminates the entire sky in a terrifying shade of red.
It was a Tuesday afternoon, the kind of day that felt deceptively normal. The sun was filtering through the lace curtains of my living room, casting soft, golden honey-hued patches on the hardwood. My grandson, Noah, was only eight weeks old—a tiny, fragile miracle with eyes the color of a stormy sea. He had been staying with me for three hours while his parents, Daniel and Megan, caught up on much-needed sleep.
