I installed hidden cameras throughout my home, convinced I would catch my nanny neglecting my twin sons. Grief had hardened me after my wife, Seraphina, died days after childbirth, leaving me alone in a glass mansion with newborns and silence. Leo cried endlessly, his fragile body tense with episodes doctors dismissed. My sister-in-law Beatrice insisted it was my emotional distance—and quietly pushed for control of my children and estate. I believed surveillance would protect my family. I didn’t know it would expose the truth.
Elena arrived quietly. Young, soft-spoken, a nursing student juggling multiple jobs, she asked only to sleep in the nursery. Beatrice called her lazy and suspicious. Fueled by doubt, I watched the feeds one sleepless night, expecting neglect. Instead, I saw Elena on the floor between the cribs, holding Leo skin-to-skin, rocking gently. She hummed a lullaby—one Seraphina had written privately for our sons. No one else should have known it.
