Justin had gained wonderfully on breast milk alone for four months, so when his pediatrician told me to start feeding him formula, I was confused. After receiving a second opinion, my husband and I switched to a pediatrician who supported breast-feeding.

A simple blood test revealed that Justin's nutritional status was sound. I continued to nurse with frequent reassurance from a lactation consultant. We began supplementing Justin's diet with solid foods and quickly moved to table foods. Justin was eating bigger meals than his 3-year-old brother was, but his weight stayed the same. The doctors and I spent months speculating on the cause of his illness: growth disorders, obscure diseases, chemical contamination. I checked off each possible cause on my ever-growing list, but nothing fit.

Finally, in May, the doctors detected a heart murmur. The same day the murmur was found, Justin surprised us all with a gain of a few ounces -- golden ounces of hope. As troubling as the heart murmur was, at least it represented a baby step toward an explanation. Justin slowly gained a few ounces every week, but he still wasn't even on the growth chart.

But I had a new problem. I was being investigated by Child Protective Services for neglect.

It was June. My husband and I had just ended an 800-mile drive home from a visit to a metabolic specialist, and we were exhausted. The test results had come back negative. Late that night, as we attempted to pull ourselves together for the next day, the telephone rang. My husband's voice began to change as he spoke to the caller. He handed me the phone and said, "Your Aunt Dee called Child Protective Services."

My mother was on the other end of the line. She told me that her sister had spoken to numerous family members about my son. The relatives I had visited in Oregon had told Dee that I looked underweight, anxious and defensive. They were right. We had just driven 14 hours to take our son to a specialist, and I was exhausted. My mother tried to comfort me by telling me everything would be all right. I told her she couldn't possibly know.

After I hung up the phone, my husband and I stood next to our sleeping son's bassinet, shocked by what we'd just learned. Our situation looked suspicious. I realized that my insistence on breast-feeding could be misunderstood.

Dee had just received her nursing license. This overzealous aunt, someone who had never even met my son or seen my home, had made a call that would change our lives forever. From her tower of judgment 1,300 miles away, she drew conclusions. To her, a rare disorder wasn't as plausible as neglect. Without even speaking to me about her concerns, she had called Child Protective Services, and told someone there that she believed I wasn't feeding my son correctly. When she had learned that I had transferred Justin's care to a pediatrician who supported breast-feeding, she was sure I was purposely depriving my son of the "proper" nutrition.

I expected a visit from a social worker the next morning. After two days, and no new information, I called CPS myself. I demanded to speak with the person who was handling my case. When I got her on the line, I explained that I knew about my aunt's referral and wanted to know what was coming next. She laughed and said she had never had an accused parent call her and offer to come in for an evaluation before.

"I have been wrongfully accused," I said, "I want to clear this up." We set up an appointment for that day.

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