Recently, my husband and I became parents, and honestly? It’s been a nightmare! Every time I lay our baby in his crib, he starts screaming nonstop, day and night. I’ve tried everything — different lullabies, rocking him for hours, white noise machines, even swaddling tricks I found online… but nothing seems to help. I’ve been running on fumes, barely sleeping, barely thinking straight.

That evening, something just felt off. I decided to check on him one last time before bed. I asked my husband to go with me, as I didn’t want to do it alone. But when we got to the crib, we froze. There, inside the crib, nestled in the far corner beneath our baby’s tiny mattress, was a safety pin. Open. Sharp. The moment I lifted the mattress and saw it, I gasped so loud it woke the baby. I picked him up instantly, holding him to my chest, crying right along with him. My husband looked pale, staring at the pin like it had personally betrayed us.

We had no idea how it got there. Neither of us remembered using one. I hadn’t used pins since my high school crafting days. But it didn’t matter. What mattered was that it had been jabbing our newborn, possibly every time we laid him down. I couldn’t stop thinking about it — the guilt, the helplessness, the endless crying that I had brushed off as “normal new mom stuff.” I kept replaying those moments when I thought he was just being “fussy” or going through a “growth spurt.” I felt sick. That night, after calming him and checking every inch of the crib again, we moved his things into a small bassinet in our room. I didn’t sleep, but for the first time in days, he did.

The next day, I couldn’t stop thinking about how that pin got there. It didn’t make sense. I wasn’t looking to blame anyone, but it felt like more than just a random accident. And when you’re a new parent running on caffeine and anxiety, you start to question everything. So I did what any overthinking mom would do — I called my mother.

Now, for context, my mom and I have a complicated relationship. She means well, but she’s a bit… intense. Old-school. She believes in doing things “her way” because, in her words, “I raised three of you and no one died.” I didn’t want to accuse her of anything, but she was the one who gifted us the crib. She had it stored in her attic — an old, wooden crib she said was “still in perfect condition.” And to be honest, it looked perfect: freshly painted, no splinters, and way sturdier than some of the flimsy ones we saw online. So I asked her gently, “Mom, is there any chance the crib had something left in it? Like a pin or anything sharp?”