The social worker’s name was Cynthia. She had a voice designed to move through grief without scratching it. She asked questions in a small consult room while I sat with a cup of water I never drank.
Who had been with the baby today?
When was he last known to be well?
Any recent falls?
Any history of bleeding disorders?
Had his parents seemed overwhelmed lately?
Were there arguments in the home?
Was anyone drinking heavily?
Were there firearms?
Had either parent ever expressed frustration or hopelessness?
Every question felt like a hand gently testing a bruise in me I had not known I had.
I answered honestly.
Daniel and Megan were tired, yes. They were first-time parents, which in my experience meant living in a state of permanent apology to the universe. Megan cried more easily than before. Daniel went quiet when he got stressed, which made him seem calmer than he was. The house was messy. They were behind on laundry, dishes, sleep, every normal thing. They loved Noah in that panicked, raw way new parents often do, like every breath he took was both miracle and referendum.
I said all of that because it was true.
