Then I noticed details I couldn’t ignore.
The garage window was covered.
The radio was always loud—just loud enough to drown out voices.
When I knocked, Jason delayed opening the door, blocking my view.

Lizzie always looked happy. Relaxed. That made it worse.

I grew up in a house full of secrets. My brain is trained to expect the worst.

One afternoon, when Jason went to the store and Lizzie was in her room, I opened the garage. Nothing looked wrong. Still, the covered window made the room feel closed off, hidden.

I found an old Wi-Fi camera we once used as a baby monitor.

My hands shook as I hid it in the corner.

That night, when they went back into the garage, I opened the app.

Jason rolled back the rug.

Under it was a hidden door.

My stomach dropped.

He lifted it, revealing narrow stairs leading underground. He told Lizzie to wait and disappeared below. When he returned, he carried a flat package wrapped in brown paper and turned the radio up louder.

Inside were yarn, knitting needles, and a small pink sweater.

Across the front, in crooked letters:
“I have the best mom in the world.”

I covered my mouth.