I set up the camera to check on my baby during naptime, but what I heard shattered me first: my mother snarling, “You live off my son and still dare to say you’re tired?” Then, right beside my child’s crib, she grabbed my wife by the hair.

Part 2

I took the stairs two at a time.

The nursery door was half open. Inside, Noah was asleep in his crib, one tiny fist tucked near his cheek, while Lily stood beside the changing table with red eyes and a strand of hair out of place, like she had tried to fix it too quickly. My mother stood by the dresser folding baby blankets with the calm focus of someone performing innocence.

When she saw me, she smiled. “Evan, you’re home early.”

I went straight to Lily. “Are you okay?”

She looked at me, and the expression on her face made my chest tighten. It wasn’t relief. Not fully. It was fear first, like she didn’t know which version of this moment she was about to get—help or dismissal.

My mother answered for her. “She’s overtired. I told her to lie down, but she insists on doing everything herself and then acting like a martyr.”

“I saw the camera,” I said.

The room went still.