“Renee.”
My voice came out lower than I expected.
“Go pack.”
She stared.
“Now.”
For once, she listened.
Maybe because Simone stood beside me.
Maybe because her own children had stopped supporting the version she wanted.
Maybe because she realized the room had changed.
Upstairs, doors closed.
I sat with Zoe and Malik at the dining table.
I did not play the recording immediately.
First I asked:
“Are either of you hurt?”
Both shook their heads.
“Has anyone told you not to tell me things?”
Malik looked at Zoe.
Zoe nodded.
“Mom said private family rules aren't for outsiders.”
I swallowed.
“Am I an outsider?”
Zoe shook her head.
“But she said you wouldn't understand.”
“Understand what?”
“That Nia gets away with stuff because her mom died.”
I closed my eyes.
Simone sat beside me.
I asked:
“What kind of stuff?”
Zoe answered:
“Not finishing food.”
“Leaving toys.”
“Talking back.”
Those sounded ordinary.
Then:
“Mom says she has to work harder because everybody feels sorry for her.”
Malik whispered:
“She makes her redo chores.”
“How many times?”
He shrugged.
“Until Mom says it's right.”
“Did she ever hit Nia?”
Both shook their heads.
Relief.
Then Malik added:
“She grabbed her arm once.”
My stomach tightened again.
“When?”
“Last month.”
“Why?”
“She wanted to call you.”
“Did she?”
“No.”
I looked toward the stairs.
I had missed it.
Not because I did not love my daughter.
Because I believed the person I married.
That would haunt me for a long time.
Zoe unlocked the tablet.
The video was not one recording.
There were eleven.
Short clips.
Thirty seconds.
Two minutes.
Four minutes.