At 2 a.m., trapped in the office, I checked the hidden baby monitor I’d installed to see why our newborn was still crying, and my blood ran cold. On the screen, my mother stormed into the baby’s room, hissed, “You live off my child and you still complain?” and yanked my exhausted wife’s hair by the crib. My wife didn’t scream; she froze. When I reviewed the saved recordings, I uncovered weeks of abuse. She thought I’d never know, until I got in my car and decided her life under my roof was over.

A week earlier, I’d installed a hidden monitor in Mateo’s room. Not to spy on them, I told myself. To protect them. It was a small camera, hidden inside a wooden owl I’d bought in Coyoacán. I just wanted to understand why my son was crying so much.

At 2:07 a.m., while my mom was still badmouthing Mariana on the phone, I got a motion alert.

I opened the app.

The screen showed the baby’s room, barely lit by a yellow lamp. Mariana sat by the crib, disheveled, her eyes red, holding Mateo. She looked devastated.

Then my mother came in.

She didn’t knock. She pushed open the door angrily.

“Crying again?” she spat. “You live off my son, you eat in this house, you use his money, and you still have the nerve to complain.”

Mariana didn’t answer. She just hugged the baby tighter.

“Mateo has a fever, Teresa. I need to call the pediatrician.”

“You’re not calling anyone!” my mother yelled. “If Alejandro knew how useless you are, he would have fired you already.”

I felt the blood drain from my feet.

Then I saw something I’ll never forget.

My mother came closer, reached into Mariana’s hair, and yanked it so hard my wife doubled over. Mateo started crying desperately. Mariana didn’t scream. She didn’t fight back. She just closed her eyes, like someone who had already learned that resisting was worse.

My mother whispered in her ear:

“I’m going to prove to my son today that you’re crazy.”

And she pulled a small, unlabeled bottle out of her bag.

I couldn’t believe what I was seeing. But the worst was yet to come…