It started as an ordinary evening — the kind that used to bring comfort. Our living room glowed softly from the warm light of a floor lamp, our daughter’s laughter faintly echoing from down the hall. I had set up a small home camera weeks earlier, mostly out of habit. It wasn’t about distrust; it was for safety, for peace of mind when I wasn’t home. But that night, as I scrolled through the footage, what I saw drained every bit of warmth from my body.
At first, it was nothing unusual. My husband sat on the couch, scrolling through his phone while our daughter played with her dolls on the rug. She giggled, showing him one of her make-believe tea sets. For a few seconds, he smiled the way he always did — the same easy smile that made me fall in love with him.
His expression hardened, the muscles in his jaw tightening. He put down his phone slowly, his eyes fixed on her in a way that made my heart lurch. I leaned closer to the screen, my pulse quickening. There was no sound — the camera only captured video — but I didn’t need to hear his words to know that something was wrong.
He stood abruptly, towering over her small frame. His gestures grew sharp, impatient. Our daughter’s shoulders tensed; her smile vanished. She said something — a quiet defense, maybe an apology — but he only waved his hands, angry and dismissive.
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