My mother took the phone back.
“This is exactly what Maya wanted.”
“Maya wanted to be left alone after surgery with no food?”
“She had food.”
“She had two packets of noodles.”
“She is exaggerating.”
“I watched the security footage.”
For the first time, my mother had no answer.
The silence stretched between us.
Then she said, very quietly, “You had no right to record private conversations.”
“It’s my apartment.”
“That camera was supposed to be for burglars.”
“It was.”
Her breath caught.
“David, you are upset. I understand that. We made a mistake leaving earlier than planned.”
“You took the baby’s formula.”
“We replaced it.”
“You turned down the heat.”
“The apartment gets stuffy.”
“You took the food.”
“It would have spoiled.”
“And you spent the fourteen thousand dollars.”
“That money was for family expenses.”
“It was for Maya and Liam.”
“You said it was to take care of the family.”
Her voice had changed. She was no longer denying what happened. She was rearranging the meaning of it.
“I need you to come home,” I said.
“We are not getting on a plane just so you can perform some dramatic interrogation.”
“The hospital filed a report.”
I heard Chloe speaking in the background.
Then Mark.
My mother covered the phone, but I could still hear fragments.
Police.
Report.
Cameras.
When she returned, her voice was colder.
“What exactly did you tell them?”
“The truth.”
“You don’t know the truth.”
“I know what I saw.”
“No,” she said. “You saw one morning.”
Something in her tone made me pause.
“What does that mean?”
“It means Maya has not told you everything.”
I looked at my wife. She was watching me from the hospital bed.
“What hasn’t she told me?”
My mother exhaled slowly.
“You should ask her why she refused to let us call the doctor three days ago.”
I turned toward Maya.
Her face had gone still.
“Why would she refuse?” I asked.
“Because she was afraid the doctor would ask questions.”
“What questions?”
My mother’s answer came carefully.
“About the money she has been sending out of the country.”
I stared at Maya.
She looked away.
My mother continued.
“She has her own secrets, David. Before you destroy this family, perhaps you should find out who your wife has been paying every month.”
Then the call ended.
For several seconds, neither Maya nor I spoke.
The machines beside her bed continued their soft electronic rhythm.
Finally, I asked, “Is that true?”
Maya’s eyes remained fixed on the blanket.
“Yes.”
The single word altered the air between us.
“Who have you been sending money to?”
“My mother.”
I knew almost nothing about Maya’s mother.
They had been estranged for years. Maya had told me that she grew up moving between relatives in the Philippines after her father disappeared. She rarely spoke of those years. When I had asked whether her mother would attend our wedding, Maya said only that it was better if she didn’t.
“How much?”
“Usually five hundred dollars. Sometimes more.”
“From where?”
“My personal savings.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Because I knew how it would look.”
I struggled to keep my voice level.
“How would it look?”
“Like I was doing the same thing you were doing.”
The answer stopped me.
Maya swallowed.
“My mother contacted me when I was four months pregnant. She said she was ill. I didn’t believe her at first. Then she sent medical records.”
“What kind of illness?”
“Kidney disease.”
