At three in the morning, I pulled up my bank statements.

The fourteen thousand dollars — meant for a night nurse, groceries, and medical care — had gone to first-class flights, an oceanfront suite, spa treatments, lobster dinners, and a VIP table at a New Year’s party.

Then I opened our home security feeds.

Footage from three days earlier showed my mother and Chloe loading our refrigerator into heavy coolers while Maya, bent over in pain, begged them to at least leave the baby’s formula.

“Don’t be dramatic, Maya,” Eleanor’s voice said, clear on the recording.

“You have bread and instant soup.