The nursery looked perfect on the outside—walls painted lavender, soft curtains swaying with the breeze, a white crib tucked neatly under a golden mobile. But Aisha knew better. Beneath the polished surface, the air carried tension, neglect, and a baby’s unanswered cries.
The little boy in her arms whimpered again, his face flushed, his lips trembling as his cry cracked into something sharper, more painful. His tiny body arched, fists clenched in discomfort. Aisha adjusted him gently against her shoulder, whispering, “Shh, baby. I know, I know you’re hurting.”
Her eyes landed on the bottle sitting on the dresser. The formula inside was still lukewarm. She had tested it. Too cold for a child this young—cold enough to knot his stomach. Just hours before, she had caught another mistake: milk heated so hot it could have burned his mouth. Every day it was something. Too hot, too cold, mixed wrong, or left too long. And every time, Aisha’s warnings were…..Read Full Story Here………………….
