But three weeks ago, something shifted.
It started small: a water glass I didn’t remember moving, a drawer left ajar, slippers no longer in their place. I chalked it up to age. Confusion. Exhaustion. But then came the moment I walked into his room and saw his lips… wet. Freshly wiped, not from a feeding. It looked like he had just spoken.
My heart stopped.
That night, after the nurse left, I did something I never imagined I would do—I bought a hidden camera. A tiny nanny cam disguised as a smoke detector.
I placed it in the corner of the room, above the bookshelf, facing Julian’s bed.
And I waited.
Three days passed. I kept to my routine. Bathed him, hummed lullabies, told him stories. But my hands trembled. I kissed his forehead each night and whispered, “If you can hear me, my love… I’m still here.”
