When my eight-month-old daughter, Hannah, spiked a 104°F fever, panic set in. “I’m calling the pediatrician,” I said, but my husband Ethan and his mother, Barbara, brushed it off. “It’s just teething,” she laughed. “You’re overreacting,” Ethan added.
Hannah burned against me, and I ignored their protests, giving her acetaminophen by weight as the on-call nurse instructed. Barbara muttered about herbal remedies, even secretly giving Hannah a bottle with willow bark and honey. When Hannah’s fever rose, I called 911. Paramedics confirmed the syrup was dangerous and rushed her to the ER.
Lily, my seven-year-old, had captured photos of Barbara’s syrup, which helped CPS and the hospital understand what had happened. Barbara was cited for interfering with medical care, and a no-contact order was issued until she completed therapy.
Hannah recovered, and our home became a safe, structured space. Lily’s drawings of our house — first fenced, then with a garden — symbolized truth, boundaries, and safety. That night, when Hannah’s forehead warmed slightly from teething, I gave her proper medicine, knowing we were finally okay.
Safety, truth, and boundaries had become our family’s new foundation.