My mother stood beside the dresser folding baby blankets like nothing in the world was wrong.
When she saw me, she smiled.
“Daniel. You’re home early.”
I walked straight to Sarah.
“Are you okay?”
She looked at me, and something in her expression tightened my chest.
It wasn’t relief.
Not completely.
It was fear first — like she didn’t know which version of me she was about to get.
Support.
Or denial.
My mother answered before she could speak.
“She’s exhausted. I told her to go lie down but she insists on doing everything herself and then acting like a martyr.”
“I saw the camera,” I said.
The room went silent.
My mother’s hands stopped moving.
Sarah closed her eyes.
“What camera?” my mother asked.
“The nursery monitor.”
I watched irritation flicker across her face — not guilt.
Just annoyance at being caught without preparation.
“So now I’m being recorded in my own grandson’s room?” she snapped.
“You pulled Sarah’s hair.”
She laughed lightly.
“Oh please. I just moved her aside. She was in my way.”
Sarah flinched at the words.
I turned to her.
“Tell me the truth.”
She started crying before she even answered.
Not loudly.
Sarah never cried loudly anymore.
The quiet kind of crying.
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