By nightfall, Penelope’s story began collapsing.
The police had the footage.
Gabriel had the archive.
The hospital had the toxicology report.
And I had weeks of recordings I could barely force myself to watch.
But I did.
In a sterile conference room near the maternity wing, with Gabriel beside me and a detective across the table, I watched my mother become a stranger again and again.
Clip after clip.
Penelope taking Sophie’s phone and deleting missed calls from me.
Penelope standing over the crib, refusing to let Sophie pick Julian up until the baby’s cries became hoarse.
Penelope whispering, “No one believes tired little mothers.”
Penelope pouring something from a capsule into Sophie’s tea.
Penelope pinching Sophie’s arm hard enough to bruise, then saying, “Careful. You mark so easily. Nicholas may think you’re unstable.”
Penelope entering the nursery at 3:14 a.m., waking Julian deliberately, then leaving before Sophie stumbled in crying from exhaustion.
That one made me stand so abruptly the chair hit the wall.
Gabriel placed a hand on my shoulder.
