Everything sounded right in words. Like caring. Like the actions of a good person. But inside, I felt a knot in my stomach, as if something was screaming, “This is wrong.”
The next day, without explaining anything to anyone, I bought a small hidden camera and installed it in Emma’s room—high up, where no one would look.
A few days later, I turned on the recording. And froze in horror.
In the video, Emma sat up abruptly in bed. Her eyes were wide open, but her gaze was empty, as if she were looking not at the walls, but somewhere through them. Her lips moved, whispering something into the darkness.
Max leaned toward her and responded quietly, barely moving his lips. From the outside, it seemed as if they were talking to a third, invisible person.
I felt cold. I lay awake all night, replaying the recording over and over again. In the morning, I talked to Max.
And I heard the truth, which didn’t make me feel any better, but only made me feel worse. It turned out that Emma had been waking up from severe nightmares for several nights in a row, crying and unable to sleep. Max simply got up with her so she wouldn’t be alone and afraid.
