The video, shaky and poorly lit, began with a date stamp from a few months prior. It captured candid moments—moments that Tremaine had clearly not intended anyone to see. The first scene unfolded in our living room, a space that seemed alive with warmth and laughter. There I was, lying on the couch, pale and wrapped in a blanket, as Zariah read aloud from her favorite storybook. Her small voice was filled with enthusiasm, and my own responses—though faint—were full of encouragement and love.
The footage cut to a series of short clips, each one a snapshot of the truth that Tremaine had so carefully tried to hide. One clip showed him speaking harshly into the camera, unaware of the recording, instructing Zariah to “tell everyone that Mommy forgets to feed you” when, in fact, the next scene was evidence of us preparing dinner together, laughter and flour in the air.
The most damning evidence, however, came next. The video captured Tremaine on the phone, his voice dripping with manipulation. “I just need you to say she’s unstable, that’s all,” he coaxed someone on the other end. “It’ll be worth your while.” It was a conversation with Dr. Valencia, the supposed psychologist, exposing a conspiracy to fabricate the psychological evaluation used against me.
