We had never installed one there because no one used it.
“What happened in that room?” I asked.
“She showed me a folder.”
Carla’s voice softened.
“It had medical records, therapy notes, photographs, and recordings of you.”
“Recordings of me doing what?”
“Crying. Yelling. Saying you couldn’t handle being a mother.”
My chest tightened.
Five years earlier, after Sophie’s birth, I had suffered from severe postpartum depression. I had attended therapy and spent a short period receiving inpatient treatment.
I recovered.
Ben and I had never hidden it, but we did not discuss the worst days with strangers.
“Diane told me you had stopped taking your medication,” Carla continued.
“That wasn’t true.”
“I know that now.”
“Why did you believe her?”
“Because she had documents. She knew names, dates, and details. She said you sometimes appeared completely normal before becoming unpredictable.”
Ben leaned forward.
“What did she ask you to do?”
“Watch Sophie constantly. Record any unusual behavior. Call her if Emma came home early.”
I stared at Carla.
“Did you record me?”
“Only once.”
Her eyes filled with shame.
“You came home laughing on the phone. Diane had told me sudden cheerfulness could be a warning sign. I took a video.”
