His expression was tender and concerned, a stark contrast to the unsettling nature of the scene unfolding before me. He approached Emma with a gentle familiarity, as if this wasn’t the first time he’d witnessed her nighttime wanderings. He knelt beside her, whispered soothing words that the camera couldn’t catch, and carefully guided her back to bed. He pulled the covers up to her chin and sat beside her, stroking her hair until her tense body seemed to relax, easing back into sleep.
I sat there, my heart a tumultuous blend of relief and residual fear. The image of my husband’s silent devotion, his every action motivated by love rather than anything sinister, left me both comforted and ashamed. I realized my suspicion had been fueled by my overactive imagination and a mother’s instinct to fear the worst.
