“What camera?” my mother asked.
“The nursery.”
Her face didn’t show guilt.
Only irritation.
“You pulled Lily’s hair,” I said.
She gave a short laugh.
“I moved her aside. She was in the way.”
Lily flinched.
That small movement told me more than any explanation could.
I turned to my wife.
“Tell me the truth.”
She didn’t scream. She didn’t fall apart. She just spoke, quietly and steadily.
“She’s been doing it for weeks.”
Then everything came out.
The criticism. The control. The isolation.
“You’re doing it wrong.”
“You’re weak.”
“You’re lucky I’m here.”
Then came the deepest wound.
“She said if something happened to Noah, no one would believe it wasn’t my fault.”
That wasn’t anger.
That was fear being planted.
