“What about the apartment cameras?”
I leaned against the wall.
The security cameras.
I had installed three of them after a package theft the previous year—one at the front door, one in the living room, and one overlooking the kitchen entrance. Maya had initially disliked the idea, so we had agreed never to place cameras in bedrooms or private areas.
The footage uploaded automatically to cloud storage.
“I haven’t checked,” I said.
“Check before you contact anyone.”
I returned to the room and opened the security application.
The first thing I noticed was that the kitchen camera had gone offline six days earlier.
The second was that it had not malfunctioned.
It had been manually disconnected.
The living room camera remained active.
I began with the previous morning.
At 8:12 a.m., my mother entered the frame wearing a linen travel suit and sunglasses. Chloe followed, carrying a suitcase. Mark came behind her with two more bags.
Maya stood near the sofa holding Liam.
Even through the small screen, I could see how carefully she moved.
My mother said something. The camera had audio, but the television was on, and the words were difficult to hear.
I increased the volume.
“You have food in the pantry,” Eleanor said.
“There are two packets of noodles,” Maya replied. “And crackers.”
“You said you didn’t have an appetite.”
“I said I felt nauseated.”
“Then noodles are perfect.”
Chloe walked through the room holding a white garment bag.
“Mom, we’re going to miss the car.”
Maya shifted Liam to her other arm.
“At least leave the formula Dr. Stein prescribed.”
Mark stopped beside the open suitcase.
“That stuff cost almost eighty dollars a tin.”
“It’s what his doctor recommended.”
My mother took the baby bag from the sofa, opened it, and removed two sealed tins of formula.
“We can return these on the way to the airport.”
Maya stared at her.
“You can’t return his food.”
“I bought replacement formula.”
“With David’s money,” Maya said.
My mother’s face changed.
It was not a dramatic change. She did not shout or raise a hand. She simply stepped closer until only a few inches separated them.
“Everything in this family is bought with David’s money,” she said quietly. “Including the roof over your head.”
I felt something cold move through me.
On the video, Maya tightened her hold on Liam.
“This is my home.”
My mother smiled.
“For now.”
The recording continued.
At 8:26, Chloe took several containers from the refrigerator and placed them into insulated travel bags.
At 8:31, Mark carried out the electric space heater I had ordered for the nursery.
At 8:34, my mother turned the thermostat down to fifty-eight degrees.
At 8:37, all three of them left.
Maya stood in the middle of the living room after the door closed.
For nearly a minute, she did not move.
Then she sat on the sofa and cried without making a sound.
I shut off the video.
My hands were shaking.
Daniel was still on the phone.
“David?”
“I saw enough.”
“Save the footage.”
“I will.”
“And listen carefully. This is no longer only a financial dispute. The hospital may be required to make a report because a recovering patient and newborn were left without proper care. Don’t interfere with that process.”
“I wouldn’t.”
“Also, do not threaten anyone. Do not post anything online. Do not make decisions about housing or access to the apartment until we understand who legally resides there.”
“My mother doesn’t live with us.”
“Does she receive mail there?”
“Sometimes.”
“Does she have a key?”
“Yes.”
“Then change the locks, but coordinate with building management. Do it properly.”
I looked through the glass panel in the door. Maya was awake, watching Liam sleep.
“Daniel, what is Hudson Family Consulting?”
“I don’t know.”
“There are repeated transfers from the account.”
“To a person or a company?”
“It says company.”
“Send me the details. I’ll look into it.”
When I returned to the room, Maya noticed my expression.
“You watched the cameras.”
It was not a question.
“Yes.”
She folded her hands over the blanket.
“How much did you see?”
“Enough to understand that you tried to stop them.”
“I should have tried harder.”
“No.”
“I let her take the formula.”
“You had just had surgery.”
“I still let her.”
I sat beside her.
“Maya, listen to me. I am not going to make you responsible for what they did.”
Tears filled her eyes, but she blinked them away.
“They kept saying I was selfish,” she whispered. “Every time I asked for anything, your mother reminded me that she raised two children after your father died. She said she went back to work three weeks after Chloe was born. She said women today expect to be treated like patients instead of mothers.”
“My father was alive when Chloe was born.”
Maya looked at me.
“What?”
“My father died when Chloe was nine.”
“She told me she raised both of you alone from infancy.”
“That isn’t true.”
The room seemed to become even quieter.
It was a small lie compared with what had happened, yet it unsettled me in a way I could not immediately explain.
My mother had told the story of her sacrifice for years. She had described exhausted nights, unpaid bills, and lonely holidays after my father’s death. I had built much of my adult life around repaying a debt I believed I owed her.
But if she had changed one part of the story, what else had she changed?
Maya studied my face.
“You didn’t know?”
“No.”
Before she could respond, a social worker entered the room.
