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…”
of tissues to try and gather the broken glass, her hands shaking violently, tears dropping onto the hardwood.
I watched Chloe take a deep, ragged breath. I saw her swallow twenty years of her own suppressed trauma. She walked over, gently pulled Abigail to her feet, and turned to face the doorway as Bernadette appeared, panting slightly.
