My breath caught. Below the text was an image. I opened it.

It was a photograph of me in the NICU weeks earlier — milk-stained, exhausted, holding my fragile twins.

But it wasn’t shot from a hallway. It was from the high angle of the hospital’s internal, “secure” CCTV. Someone had breached the mainframe just to watch me at my most vulnerable.

I stared at the glowing screen in the dim nursery, and the warmth in my eyes went cold and tactical again.

I locked the phone and set it down on the nightstand, face down, beside a bottle warmer and a stack of burp cloths.

I did not call it in that night. I told myself I would in the morning.