“My mother doesn’t live with us.”
“Does she receive mail there?”
“Sometimes.”
“Does she have a key?”
“Yes.”
“Then change the locks, but coordinate with building management. Do it properly.”
I looked through the glass panel in the door. Maya was awake, watching Liam sleep.
“Daniel, what is Hudson Family Consulting?”
“I don’t know.”
“There are repeated transfers from the account.”
“To a person or a company?”
“It says company.”
“Send me the details. I’ll look into it.”
When I returned to the room, Maya noticed my expression.
“You watched the cameras.”
It was not a question.
“Yes.”
She folded her hands over the blanket.
“How much did you see?”
“Enough to understand that you tried to stop them.”
“I should have tried harder.”
“No.”
“I let her take the formula.”
“You had just had surgery.”
“I still let her.”
I sat beside her.
“Maya, listen to me. I am not going to make you responsible for what they did.”
Tears filled her eyes, but she blinked them away.
“They kept saying I was selfish,” she whispered. “Every time I asked for anything, your mother reminded me that she raised two children after your father died. She said she went back to work three weeks after Chloe was born. She said women today expect to be treated like patients instead of mothers.”
“My father was alive when Chloe was born.”
Maya looked at me.
“What?”
“My father died when Chloe was nine.”
“She told me she raised both of you alone from infancy.”
“That isn’t true.”
The room seemed to become even quieter.
It was a small lie compared with what had happened, yet it unsettled me in a way I could not immediately explain.
My mother had told the story of her sacrifice for years. She had described exhausted nights, unpaid bills, and lonely holidays after my father’s death. I had built much of my adult life around repaying a debt I believed I owed her.
But if she had changed one part of the story, what else had she changed?
Maya studied my face.
“You didn’t know?”
“No.”
Before she could respond, a social worker entered the room.
Her name was Lena Morales. She had a composed face, kind eyes, and a folder tucked under one arm.
She asked to speak with us together.
Lena explained that the hospital’s concern was not merely Maya’s infection. It was the combination of her condition, the lack of food, the low temperature in the apartment, and the absence of the people who had agreed to care for her.
