Ramón woke instantly.
He sat up, carefully moved farther away from her, and lifted her arm back onto the mattress.
For a second, he seemed to realize how little room she had.
His face tightened.
Then he stood.
He tucked the blanket around her again, kissed her forehead, picked up his shoes, and left.
Less than a minute later, I heard our bedroom door open.
I wiped my face quickly and went to the kitchen.
Ramón entered a few moments later.
He stopped when he saw me standing beside the counter.
“You’re awake?” he whispered.
“So are you.”
He gave me a tired smile.
“Just got home.”
That sentence hurt more than I expected.
I looked at him for several seconds.
“No,” I said quietly.
“You got home a while ago.”
His expression changed.
He glanced toward the hallway.
Then toward my phone on the counter.
I turned the screen around.
The camera feed was still open.
Ramón went completely still.
Neither of us spoke.
Finally, he closed his eyes.
“You installed a camera?”
“Yes.”
“In Mika’s room?”
“She kept telling me someone was sleeping beside her.”
He looked down.
“So I wanted to find out if my daughter was imagining things.”
He heard the words he himself had used earlier.
His shoulders dropped.
“I can explain.”
“I hope so.”
He pulled out a chair and sat at the kitchen table.
For the first time that night, I felt anger rising beneath the sadness.
Not because he had wanted to be close to our daughter.
Because he had let her become frightened instead of telling us the truth.
“How long?” I asked.
Ramón rubbed both hands over his face.
“A few weeks.”
“A few weeks?”
He nodded.
“Not every night.”
“How many?”
“I don’t know.
Whenever I come home late and she’s already asleep.”
I stared at him.
“And you just get into her bed?”
“I sit beside her first.”
“That isn’t what I asked.”
He swallowed.
“Sometimes I lie down.”
“Until she’s pushed to the edge.”
