At exactly 1:42 p.m. on a Wednesday, I opened the nursery feed from my office.
Just to check in.
Just to feel close to home for a moment.
Then I heard my mother’s voice.
Cold. Calm. Familiar in a way I had never questioned before.
“You live off my son and still dare to say you’re tired?”
Before my mind could catch up to what I was hearing, I saw her grab Lily by the hair beside our son’s crib.
Lily didn’t scream.
She didn’t fight.
She froze.
Completely still.
And that stillness broke something in me, because I finally understood what I should have understood long before.
Her silence had never been patience.
It had been fear.
