And I realized I wasn’t walking into an argument.

I was walking into a trap my wife had been living inside alone.

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.

My mother’s hands froze over the baby blanket. Lily closed her eyes.

“What camera?” my mother asked, though she clearly knew.

“The nursery feed.”

I watched the color shift in her face—not guilt, but irritation that she had been caught without time to prepare. “So now I’m being recorded in my own grandson’s room?”

“You pulled Lily’s hair.”

My mother laughed thinly. “Oh, for God’s sake. I moved her aside. She was in the way.”

Lily flinched the way people do when a lie is too familiar.

I turned to her gently. “Tell me the truth.”

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