I thought I’d be drowning in guilt. Instead, a strange clarity settled over me—like that hidden camera had exposed more than just a device. It showed exactly how my mother and sister viewed me. Not as a parent. Not as a grown woman. As a child who still needed supervision.
Grant sat down beside me and wrapped his fingers around mine. “You made the right call,” he said softly.
“Let them,” he replied. “Anyone who equates spying on a baby with love isn’t someone we need in our corner.”
That afternoon, Grant filed a report with the police—not because we were looking for a legal battle, but because we needed documentation. We recorded everything: the device, the drilled hole, the message saying you weren’t supposed to find that.
Later, when my mother still showed up—pounding on our door with a bag of “presents” and an expression full of wounded indignation—Grant refused to let her in. He spoke through the doorbell camera.
“You’re trespassing,” he said steadily. “Leave now, or we’re calling the police.”
Her voice shot up, sharp and furious. “You’re making my own daughter turn against me!”
Grant replied softly, “No. You did that on your own.”
That night, Isla slept peacefully in the bassinet beside our bed, blissfully unaware. As I watched her tiny body rise and fall, a truth settled inside me—one I should have understood long ago:
Love doesn’t demand spying.
If this whole situation makes your blood boil, tell me: would you cut ties immediately, or allow one chance for an apology with firm limits? And what would you do with the crib—return it, destroy it, or keep it as proof?
