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I scream as I scramble to catch the tiny airborne lifeform. Terror seizes every cell of my being.

Letting go of the knife, I fall to my torn, burning knees and manage to save my baby in the nick of time. Just before she lands on the hard, slick ground and cracks open her skull.

I heave the mega-sigh of relief I didn’t know I was keeping in. Kneeling, almost oblivious to the pouring rain, I hold my baby, my beautiful Mia, in my outstretched arms, supporting her tiny head in my raw, scraped hands. My love for her is so great it obliterates the pain. The poor little thing is drenched, the wet weight of her heavy in my blood-stained palms. Still dizzy from my fall, she goes in and out of focus. I blink several times to clear my vision and to get the cold rain out of my eyes.

My sixth sense kicks in. The hairs on the back of my neck bristle. I know I’m at the edge of the property. My fear of heights consumes me. The vertigo, the nausea.

Don’t look down. Just focus on my baby. On keeping her safe.

A blast of thunder rocks the air. So loud and powerful it shakes me.

But why isn’t my baby stirring? Or crying? She looks and feels so lifeless. Oh God, is she dead? On my next blink, I stare into her glassy, unblinking, wide-open eyes.

Then, gasp with a mixture of shock and rage.