What They Say When I'm Not There

When I left for a 10-day work trip, I had the usual mom guilt, but I told myself they'd be okay. I left them with their father, who assured me everything would be fine. His parents were around too — their grandparents. On paper, it looked solid. Safe. Family.

Before I left, he went around turning off all the security cameras — even unplugged a wired one. When I noticed, I asked him why and told him to turn the backyard and garage cameras back on. He agreed.

But for some reason, he also turned on the kitchen camera — a camera that’s never on when anyone is home. I didn’t ask him to. He chose to. And now, I can’t help but believe a higher power wanted me to see what was really happening.

Listening to that recording was like standing outside a window, watching my kids try to grow in soil that was never meant to nourish them. And realizing that for too long, I’d been gaslit into thinking this was normal.

What I later watched and transcribed wasn’t loud or obvious. It was subtle. Quiet. And that made it even worse.

It was emotional neglect, wrapped in normal.

It was hours of being ignored, corrected, talked over, and dismissed. My kids — both so young — spent most of those days entertaining themselves. Their father barely interacted with them unless they were bothering him. They were physically present, but emotionally invisible.

Their grandfather only spoke to criticize. “That’s not funny,” he told one of them when she laughed. “That’s weird.” When they played too loudly, they were told, “Go somewhere else if you're going to be like that.” As if their joy was something to be managed, not celebrated.

Their grandmother drifted in and out, gossiping with their dad about me. “She’s unstable. She always overreacts. Eventually, she’ll have to let go.” Not quiet enough for little ears to miss. These weren’t slip-ups — they were plans. Cold calculations disguised as casual conversation.

They talked about custody. About how to “handle” me. About waiting me out.

The children asked for food and were ignored. One of them wanted help and was brushed off with, “Figure it out.” No eye contact. No warmth. Just passive neglect dressed up as parenting.

And then — the part that haunts me — my daughter tried to reach me. She went behind a door, hiding, trying to send me a message. I didn’t know it at the time, but later, in a fight over text, he admitted it: “She was behind the door trying to text you.”

That wasn’t just a scared child. That was a child reaching for safety.

And through it all, the silence was the loudest part. No yelling. No bruises. Just a vacuum — the cold, echoing absence of nurture, patience, and presence. Emotional starvation in a home that looked “normal” from the outside.

I’m not ashamed I went on that trip. I was working, providing, showing my girls what it means to pursue something with strength. But I’m done pretending that “time with family” automatically means safety or love.

That camera wasn’t supposed to be on. He didn’t mean for me to hear it.

But I did.

And once you hear the truth, you can’t unhear it.