One look at the crib was enough for the elderly woman to cover her mouth with both hands.
“No… oh, little one, no…”
Maya was on the floor, trembling, pointing at the crib as if she still expected someone to wake him up.
“I left the bottles,” she cried. “I left the milk beside him.”
Mrs. Linda slowly turned toward her.
Her eyes were filled with tears, but her voice was cold.
“Did you think bottles could raise a newborn?”
Maya covered both of her ears with her hands.
“Don’t say it…”
What did you think he would do, Maya?” Mrs. Linda asked, her voice breaking. “That he would take care of himself? That he would call you when he was hungry? That he would open the door and ask for help?”
