Mark called 911 with blood on his hands and his mother screaming behind him.

“My wife is hurt,” he said into the phone, his voice breaking. “My baby is crying. My mother is here. Please send someone now.”

On the nursery floor, Hannah was curled beside the crib, one hand pressed to her forehead, the other reaching blindly toward their six-month-old daughter, Lily. The baby was standing shakily against the crib rails, wailing so hard her tiny face had turned red.

“Mark, don’t you dare,” his mother snapped.

Evelyn stood in the doorway in her cream church blouse, pearls still around her neck, looking more offended than frightened. The heavy ceramic angel she always kept on the dresser lay shattered near Hannah’s shoulder.

Mark stared at it, then at his wife’s bleeding temple.

“What did you do?” he whispered.

Evelyn’s eyes widened, but not with guilt. With rage.

“I stopped her from taking my granddaughter away from this family.”

Hannah sobbed. “I wasn’t taking her away. I was going to the doctor.”

Evelyn lunged forward. “Liar.”

Mark stepped between them.

For years, he had made excuses for his mother. She was lonely. She was protective. She was old-fashioned. She loved too hard. Every time Hannah said Evelyn crossed a line, Mark had asked her to be patient. Every time Hannah said she felt watched in her own home, he said his mother meant well.

But there was no kind explanation for the blood on the nursery rug.

The dispatcher’s voice crackled in his ear, asking if the attacker was still inside.

Mark looked at his mother.

“Yes,” he said.

Evelyn went still.

“You’re calling the police on me?”

“You hit my wife.”

“She was hysterical.”

“She’s bleeding.”

“She was trying to poison your mind against me.”

Hannah lifted her head weakly. “Mark… Lily’s arm. Please.”

The baby kept crying, one sleeve of her pink onesie twisted near her elbow. Mark moved toward the crib, but Evelyn grabbed his wrist.