Każdej nocy, po tym jak zasnąłem, żona sprawdzała, co u naszego syna. Próbowałem to zignorować, ale powiadomienia z inteligentnego domu wciąż się pojawiały. Pewnego wieczoru przejrzałem rejestr aktywności z czujnika na korytarzu. Nie szukałem dramatu, chciałem po prostu zrozumieć. Odkryłem spokojną rutynę, zmartwienie, które skrywała sama, i prawdę o naszej rodzinie, za którą tęskniłem od miesięcy. Rano cały dom wydawał się inny.

On one of those wake-ups, I realized Nia wasn’t in bed.

The house was silent, the kind of silence you get when the heater kicks off and the whole place seems to hold its breath. I got up and stepped into the hallway, barefoot on cool hardwood. A small nightlight glowed near the baseboards, and down the hall I saw it: Ethan’s door was cracked open, and a sliver of light leaked out.

Nia was inside.

I froze, not wanting the floorboards to betray me. I watched the thin line of light, listened for voices, for movement. Time stretched. Ten minutes felt like an hour. When she finally came out, she moved with that careful quiet of someone who knows she shouldn’t be heard, and she pulled the door shut behind her.

“What were you doing in his room at this hour?” I asked, and my voice startled even me.

Nia jumped, a hand flying to her chest.

“Darius, you scared me,” she said. “I went to check if he was sleeping okay, because of the nightmares.”

“Thirty minutes to check?” I asked, and I hated how hard it was to keep my voice steady.

“He woke up,” she said quickly. “He was agitated. I stayed there calming him down.”

“Why didn’t you wake me?”

“What kind of question is that?” Her tone sharpened, then softened again like she caught herself. “He needed his mom.”

“Sorry,” I murmured, because that’s what I did when I felt something pulling us toward a fight. “I was just worried.”

We went back to bed, but sleep didn’t come. I lay there staring into the dark, listening to my wife’s breathing, and the thought I couldn’t say out loud started to form: what if the person I trusted most was the reason my son was scared?

The next morning, after Nia took Ethan to school, I walked straight into his room. I didn’t know exactly what I was looking for, only that my hands needed something solid to hold onto, some clue that would make me feel less crazy.

Under the bed, half tucked into the shadows, I found Ethan’s old teddy bear, the one I’d given him years ago after a hard Christmas season on the road. He’d loved that bear like it could protect him. Now it was torn in places, seams split, stuffing peeking out. Ethan had always been gentle with his things, and seeing it broken felt like seeing a bruise where you didn’t expect one.

I lifted it, and my stomach dropped. There were dark, dried stains on the fabric, the kind that looked like a mix of sweat and tears, the kind that told you someone had held it tight while trying not to make a sound.

That night I stayed awake on purpose.

When Nia thought I’d fallen asleep, she slipped out of bed like a shadow, quiet as a whisper, and headed down the hall. I waited a minute, then crept after her, stopping outside Ethan’s door. From inside I heard a muffled sound, the shaky breath of a child crying into a pillow.

Then I heard Nia’s voice, low and firm, not the warm tone she used at dinner.

“Discipline,” she said. “It’s for your own good.”

My blood ran cold. I stood there with my hand hovering over the doorknob, my heart pounding so loud I was sure it would give me away. What kind of discipline happens in the middle of the night? What kind makes your child cry like he’s trying to disappear?

In that moment, a decision formed in me with a clarity that scared me. I wasn’t going to keep guessing. I wasn’t going to let “phase” be the excuse for fear in my son’s eyes. If something was happening behind that door, I was going to know.

The next morning, I left the house early under the excuse of company business. I drove through downtown Augusta past brick storefronts and fast-food signs, the familiar stretch of Washington Road, the kind of places I’d always considered safe because they were home. My head buzzed with doubt and anger and that sick feeling that comes when your mind is trying to protect you from what your instincts already know.

I walked into an electronics store and told the clerk I needed a small, discreet camera I could access from my phone.

“Home security?” he asked.

“Yes,” I said, and my throat tightened. “For my son’s security.”

I left with a tiny camera small enough to hide, a device that felt too light for the weight it carried. On the drive home, guilt fought with urgency. I never imagined I’d reach the point of installing a hidden camera in my own house to monitor my own wife, but the thought of Ethan crying in the night had burned through my hesitation.

When I got back, Nia was in the kitchen stirring something on the stove. The air smelled like onions and butter, ordinary and almost cruel in how normal it was.

“Did you get what you needed?” she asked.

“Yeah,” I lied, and slid the bag into my jacket pocket. “I got everything sorted.”

“I’m going to take a shower,” I added, because lies work best when they sound boring.

In Ethan’s room, my hands shook as I looked for a spot that would capture the whole space without being obvious. I placed the camera on the bookshelf between toys, tucked it like it belonged there. I tested the feed on my phone, and when I saw the room appear on the screen, clear and steady, relief washed over me so hard it almost made me dizzy.

Then the guilt came, sharp and immediate, because I loved my wife, because I wanted her to be innocent, because I wanted to be wrong. But guilt doesn’t protect children. Proof does.

That night at dinner, I tried to act normal, but my stomach churned. Ethan stayed quiet, answering only when spoken to, and every answer came with that quick, scared glance toward his mother. Nia chatted like she always did, talking about neighbors, weekend plans, little things that should’ve been harmless.

“I have to head back out on the road the day after tomorrow,” I said, watching them closely. “Long trip down to Texas.”

Ethan’s shoulders slumped, so subtle it might’ve been missed by anyone who wasn’t looking for it. Nia’s eyes flickered too, a tiny flash that disappeared behind a calm face.

“How long this time?” she asked.

“At least two weeks,” I said. “Maybe more.”

Ethan dropped his head further, picking at his food. Nia smiled faintly and reached to touch his shoulder like a picture of motherhood.

“We’ll miss you,” she said. “Won’t we, Ethan?”

He nodded without speaking.

Later, when I put him to bed, he grabbed my hand with desperate strength.

“Dad,” he whispered, “do you really have to travel?”

My chest tightened so hard it hurt to breathe. I stroked his hair and tried to sound confident.

“Yes, son. I need to work, but it’ll go by fast and I’ll be back soon, okay?”

He didn’t answer. He just hugged me like he was trying to keep me there by force of will, and I knew, deep down, that whatever was happening in this house, Ethan believed my leaving was part of it.

The next day, I spent as much time with him as I could. I took him for ice cream after school, the kind with a little wooden spoon and sprinkles that stick to your fingers. We played catch in the yard until the sun slid low and the air turned damp. We watched his favorite cartoon on the couch, and I let him lean against me longer than usual, because I wanted him to feel me there, solid and real.

That night, before he fell asleep, I tried one more time.

“Ethan,” I said softly, “you know you can tell me anything, right? Even if someone tells you not to.”

His eyes darted to the door like he expected someone to appear.

“I know, Dad,” he whispered.

“Is there something happening that makes you sad or scared?”

His eyes filled, but he held the tears back like he’d been trained to. He shook his head fast, almost panicked.

“I can’t, Dad.”

“Why not?” I asked, my voice breaking.

Zaczął odpowiadać, ale w korytarzu rozległy się kroki. Kroki Nii, znajome i pewne. Pojawiła się w drzwiach i spojrzała na nas z uśmiechem, który nie musnął jej oczu.

„Ty też już pora spać” – powiedziała do mnie. „Potrzebujesz odpoczynku przed jutrzejszą podróżą”.

Przytuliłem Ethana i szepnąłem mu do ucha: „Kocham cię, synu. Zawsze będę cię chronił”.

Kiedy wyszedłem z jego pokoju, Nia poszła za mną do łóżka. Położyliśmy się, a po chwili pozwoliłem oddechowi zwolnić, a ciało znieruchomieć. Czekałem, aż cisza da mi znać, że Nia uwierzyła, że ​​śpię.

Około godziny później cicho wstała i opuściła pokój.

Ręce mi się trzęsły, gdy sięgałam po telefon i otwierałam aplikację aparatu. Serce waliło mi tak mocno, że myślałam, że obudzę cały dom.

Na ekranie widziałem, jak Nia wchodzi do pokoju Ethana i zamyka za sobą drzwi. Ethan leżał w łóżku, rozbudzony, jakby spodziewał się wizyty. Podciągnął koc pod brodę, wtulając się w niego, jakby mógł go ukryć.

„Mamo, proszę” – wyszeptał. „Byłem dziś grzeczny”.

„Wiesz, że to nie ma znaczenia” – odpowiedziała Nia, a głos, który się z niej wydobył, nie był głosem, który poślubiłem. Był zimny, odległy, pozbawiony ciepła. „To dla twojej edukacji”.

Następnie sięgnęła do kieszeni szlafroka i wyjęła rolkę taśmy maskującej.

Całe moje ciało zmarzło. Wpatrywałem się w ekran telefonu, jakbym nie ufał własnym oczom, jakby mrugnięcie mogło zmienić scenę w coś zwyczajnego. Oczy Ethana rozszerzyły się ze strachu i próbował się cofnąć, ale nie miał dokąd uciec.

„Proszę, mamo” – powiedział ponownie, ciszej. „Obiecuję, że będzie lepiej”.

„Cicho” – syknęła, przykładając palec do ust. „Sąsiedzi nie słyszą. Tata też nie”.

Szybkim ruchem oderwała pasek i przycisnęła go do ust Ethana. Głos mojego syna zniknął w jednej chwili, zastąpiony stłumionym jękiem, który przerodził się w ciche łzy spływające po jego policzkach.

„Już lepiej” – powiedziała Nia cicho i opanowanie. „Teraz nie będziemy już nikomu przeszkadzać płaczem”.

Następnie wyciągnęła z drugiej kieszeni twardy kapcie.

Ręce trzęsły mi się tak bardzo, że o mało nie upuściłam telefonu. Chciałam wyskoczyć z sypialni, wyrwać te drzwi z zawiasów, stanąć między nią a moim dzieckiem. Ale jakaś część mnie, ta, która przemierzała zamiecie i gołoledź i na własnej skórze przekonała się, że panika może zabić, kazała mi pozostać w bezruchu. Potrzebowałam dowodu, że nikt nie da rady wykręcić się od tematu. Potrzebowałam czegoś, co zobaczyłaby policja.