I was chopping vegetables when my four-year-old suddenly grabbed my arm, eyes wide with fear. “Mommy… can I stop taking the pills Grandma gives me every day?” My blood went cold. My mother-in-law had always called them “healthy vitamins.” I told my daughter to bring the bottle from her room. The name meant nothing to me. I rushed her to the doctor within the hour. He studied the label once—then his face drained of color. He slammed the bottle down and shouted, “Do you have any idea what this drug is? Why is a four-year-old taking it? Who gave this to her?”
When the police and CPS arrived at our house, Diane was baffled. She didn’t resist; she seemed genuinely confused. But when they confronted her with the bottle, the mask slipped—not into madness, but into a chilling, arrogant rationality. I wasn’t there—I was at the hospital—but Patricia recounted the interview to me later. “She admitted it,”…
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