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…”

data did not match the narrative. Every afternoon when I returned from the dispatch terminal, the exhaustion in Abigail’s eyes was deeper, darker. Her eyelids were frequently swollen, rimmed with the angry red of suppressed tears. Her hands shook violently whenever she reached for her prescribed medication. She was not healing; she was withering.

And continue reading …