That day, I pressed “play” and realized: there was no turning back. I didn’t tell my paralyzed mother-in-law that I had installed cameras in the apartment. What I saw in the recordings destroyed our family in a single night.
I still remember the day my husband walked into the apartment with an expression as if the world had already made a decision for both of us, and all I could do was accept it. He silently placed his bag by the wall, sat opposite me, and said that his mother could no longer stay alone. After the stroke, doctors confirmed paralysis; she needed constant care, and there were no other options—she was moving in with us.
At that moment, I felt something inside me slowly clench, as if a cold hand had been laid right on my heart. For all the years of our marriage, this woman had been the source of almost all my tears, humiliations, and sleepless nights.
She never screamed or made scenes. She operated differently: quietly, precisely. In such a way that those around us saw only a strict, caring mother, while I was left looking like the hysterical daughter-in-law who misunderstood everything.
When my husband spoke of compassion and duty, I looked at the photos from the hospital, at her immobile body, at her empty gaze, and tried to convince myself that the past should truly remain in the past.
I kept telling myself that a person chained to a chair couldn’t be a threat, but the fear didn’t leave. From the very first day she appeared in our apartment, the space seemed to change: the air became denser, the silence heavier, and the walls seemed to absorb the tension.
I cared for her almost automatically: fed her with a spoon, wiped her lips with a napkin, changed the bedding.
I listened as my husband spoke with pity about how she was “not the same anymore,” and every time I would catch her gaze, which lingered on me far too consciously. She almost never spoke, occasionally making inarticulate sounds.
Everyone around assured me these were the consequences of the stroke, but I couldn’t shake the feeling that she heard and understood more than she showed. At night, I would wake up from the slightest rustle, go to the kitchen, and check the doors, even though my mind understood that she supposedly couldn’t get up from the chair…
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