The young couple lived in the city, spinning in circles every day with work. During the day, they struggled everywhere to make a living, and at night they faced the same familiar battle: feeding their child and coaxing him to sleep.

The child was just over two years old, tiny and pale. Every mealtime was like torture. As soon as a spoonful of rice reached his mouth, he screamed, clamped his lips shut, and finally gagged everything out. Drinking milk was no better—whatever went down came right back up.

At night, instead of sleeping peacefully, the child tossed and turned, crying until he was exhausted. The mother held him constantly, with dark circles under her eyes and messy hair. The father tried to comfort the child while still working, but he too was worn out. The whole family lived in days so tiring and drained that they gradually lost hope.

There were nights when the mother sat blankly by the window, holding her child in her arms, tears streaming down: “I don’t know if you’ll even grow up…”

The father held his wife’s shoulder, but he too choked with emotion. Work pressure, combined with their child’s nightly cries, made both of them feel like they were standing on the edge of a cliff.

In the midst of despair, the phone rang from the countryside. The grandmother’s voice trembled but was full of certainty: “Let me take care of him. With me, it’ll be different. Send him here for a few months, and I guarantee he’ll be fine.”

The couple hesitated when they heard it. Life in the city was tough, but at least they could see their child. The countryside was far—could they really feel secure? But looking at their thin, lethargic child, they sighed: “Let’s send him to grandma. Maybe with the experience of the elderly, he’ll get better.”

A few days later, they brought their son back to the countryside. The grandmother held him in her arms, her eyes shining with happiness. The wrinkles all over her face seemed to relax, and she kept whispering: “Be good now, it’ll be different with grandma…”

And true to her words, a miracle happened so fast it was unbelievable. After only three days, she called with the news: “He eats well, finishes every bowl. He sleeps through the night and wakes up smiling. See? The experience of the elderly is still precious!”

That news was like rain after a long drought. The couple was overjoyed, breathing a sigh of relief. Friends teased them: “The elders are still better. You two have much to learn!”

They couldn’t hide their pride. Every call home, hearing their child babbling and laughing heartily, felt like a burden lifted. They bragged everywhere that grandma was truly a “savior.”

But their joy didn’t last long.

One hot afternoon, while at work in the office, the mother received a frantic call from the countryside. A trembling voice cried on the line: “The child has fainted! Take him to the hospital immediately!”

The mother turned pale, hands shaking so hard she dropped the phone. The father froze upon hearing the news, then dashed to the car, driving like mad. Horns blared, wind roared past his ears, and the city streets stretched into an endless river. Their hearts pounded violently, every second dragging on like an eternity.

When they arrived at the district hospital, the sight before them crushed them: their little boy lay motionless, his skin pale, his lips darkened. A slow IV drip hung beside him, the monitor beeped coldly in the sterile room.

The mother lunged forward, sobbing: “My baby! Please, wake up!”

The father clutched his child’s cold little hand, trembling, then turned to the grandmother, his voice breaking: “What have you done to my son?”

The grandmother stammered, tears streaming down her face: “I… I only gave him medicine. Supplements… so he would be obedient, eat well, and sleep well…”

Those words were like a dagger straight to the heart.

The couple rushed back to her house and opened the old wooden cabinet. The doors swung wide, revealing a horrifying sight: dozens of pill packs piled up—sedatives, sleeping pills, even medications for the elderly.

A sharp, acrid smell hit their noses. The mother screamed, collapsing on the spot. The father held a bottle of pills, trembling as if losing his mind.

It turned out that for the past month, to make her grandson “obedient,” the grandmother had ground sedatives, diluted them, and secretly given them to the boy. Those hearty meals, those peaceful sleeps… were nothing but illusions created by drugs.

Both parents stood frozen. The world seemed to collapse, guilt and regret crushing their chests. The trust they had placed turned into a nightmare.

At that moment, the doctor entered, his voice heavy: “You were lucky to bring him in on time. If you’d been a few hours later, I fear…”

The unfinished sentence fell like a hammer.

In the room, there was no sound except the medical machines and their sobs. The grandmother slumped to the floor, covering her face, wailing: “I only wanted him healthy… I didn’t know…”

But those words could not erase the consequences. The father stood speechless, eyes bloodshot. The mother clung to her child, terrified that if she let go, he would slip away forever.

That night, they didn’t dare close their eyes. The white light shone down on their child’s frail, pale face. Every weak breath was like a fragile thread tying him to life. Outside, the wind howled through the trees, a sound like cries from the depths of despair.

They had once wished their child would be “good,” had longed for peaceful sleep. But now, if only he would wake and whisper “Mom,” if only he would smile truly, they would trade everything.

And then, at dawn, the miracle came. The child stirred, his drowsy eyes slowly opening. The mother burst into tears: “My baby! You’re awake!”

The father hugged him tightly, tears streaming down. They knew the recovery would be long, the damage from the drugs uncertain. But at least, their child had returned from the edge of death.

From that moment, they etched into their hearts a lesson written in tears: there is no shortcut to raising a child. Any “obedience” or “ease” that comes from drugs or shortcuts may cost a life.

In that hospital room, the sobs mingled with the child’s weak breaths, leaving a scar in the hearts of the young couple. A scar that would never fade…

Disclaimer: Every event, conversation, and emotion in this story is shared precisely as it occurred or was witnessed. Some circumstances may appear unusual or dramatic, but they are documented exactly as experienced by the individuals involved. Readers are invited to engage fully with the story and its emotional impact, trusting that all details are real. Any similarities to real-life people, places, or situations are natural, plausible, and should be regarded as completely authentic.