Every morning, the nursery camera signal dropped while my mother cared for my sick wife. Suspecting something, I hid a secondary camera in the room. When I checked the feed the next day, I saw my mother standing over my wife, holding a syringe, and whispering, “This is for your own good…”
or the constant, heavy-footed pacing Bernadette did on the hardwood floors directly above our bedroom.
“It is totally fine, Kenneth, please let it go,” Abigail would whisper in the dark, her hand trembling as she pulled the duvet up to her chin. “She uprooted her life to come try to help us. I would die before I seemed ungrateful.”
