Silence on the feed. Through the doorbell camera I watched my mother stand frozen in the living room, chest heaving, the illusion of the perfect matriarch burned to ash.

Slowly, defeated, she turned. Ten minutes later she walked out the front door and stood stiff on the porch while the locksmiths drilled out the deadbolts behind her.

She didn’t look at the camera again. When the Uber came, the movers loaded her bags, she got in, and the car pulled away down the quiet suburban street.

I sat there a long time after she was gone, the adrenaline draining out of me, leaving me hollow and exhausted and profoundly relieved.

Then I called Paige.

“She’s gone,” I said. “The locks are changed. Bring them home.”