Not to film them. To film the bathroom.
I pushed past my mother when she realized where I was headed. The toilet lid was up. Pale gray residue clung faintly to the porcelain near the drain, visible under the vanity light. My stomach lurched so violently I had to grip the sink. I kept the phone steady, forcing myself to capture everything—the angles, the paper towel roll, the open cabinet, the still-damp flush handle.
Behind me, my mother said, “Put that away. This is private.”
I let out a dry, broken laugh. “Private? You flushed my son down a toilet.”
Dad stepped into the doorway, jaw tight. “Emily, enough. We’ll talk about this.”
“No,” I said, still recording. “You’ll talk. I’m done being the reasonable one.”
I turned the camera toward my mother. She raised a hand to block her face.
“Say what you said again.”
She straightened, pride hardening her features. “I said this house has become suffocating. Chloe is carrying a child. She needs peace, not a shrine to death in the guest room.”
Chloe gasped softly behind us. “Mom.”
