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Every Morning, My Eight-Year-Old Said Her Bed Felt “Too Small.” When I Checked the Camera One Night, I Finally Understood Why.
Emily’s bedroom door was slowly opening.
Thin. Slightly bent. Moving carefully, as if unsure of the floor beneath her feet.
As the image sharpened, recognition hit me so hard I had to clamp my hand over my mouth to keep from crying out.
It was my mother-in-law, Margaret.
She was seventy-eight years old.
I watched as she crossed the room, gently pulled back the covers, and lay down beside my sleeping daughter as if it were the most natural thing in the world.
Emily shifted, nudged toward the edge of the mattress. She frowned slightly in her sleep, then settled again.
