“He’s old—he won’t even remember.”
That was the excuse my cousin gave me, right after I caught her on camera stealing my sick father’s pain medication.
I’d installed a little smart camera in his living room, just to make sure he was safe while I was away on a work trip. I was worried he might fall or leave the stove on.
Instead, I got a front-row seat to a sickening betrayal. I watched her belittle him when she thought he couldn’t hear and pocket his pills like they were hers for the taking.
When I finally confronted her, she didn’t just deny it. She attacked, accusing me of being a sick spy and trying to convince my own confused father that I was the real villain in the story.
She thought she could get away with it by twisting the truth, but she never counted on me replacing that camera with a live speaker, giving me the power to not only get her cut from the will, but to personally kick her off the property from a thousand miles away.
The Eye on the Shelf: A Matter of Security
The little black camera felt cold and heavy in my hand, a dense, plastic cyclops. I stood on my dad’s rickety dining chair, reaching for the top of the bookshelf, trying to find a spot that felt less like a betrayal.
“Are you sure about this, Sarah?” my husband, Mark, had asked last night, watching me read the setup instructions. “It feels a little… Big Brother.”
“His doctor said the fall could cause more confusion,” I’d replied, not looking up. “He tried to pay the pizza delivery guy with a book of stamps last week. I just need to know he’s not going to leave the stove on while I’m in San Diego.”
My son, Leo, had just snorted from the couch. “It’s creepy, Mom. You’re bugging Grandpa’s house.”
Now, looking at my father, Frank, slumped in his worn, brown leather recliner, the word “creepy” echoed in my head. He was watching an old episode of Gunsmoke, the volume just a little too loud. The house smelled the way it always had: a faint, comforting mix of old paperbacks, dust, and the ghost of the pipe tobacco he’d quit a decade ago. It was a smell I associated with safety. This camera felt like an intruder.
“It’s just for security, Dad,” I said, angling the lens to capture the recliner, the front door, and the small side table where his pill organizer sat. “Like a doorbell camera, but for the inside.”
He didn’t turn his head, just waved a dismissive hand. “Whatever you need to do, Sarah. Don’t you miss your flight.” It wasn’t an approval, just an acknowledgement. He hated being a fuss. After Mom died, his world had shrunk to the four walls of this house, and his pride had grown to fill the empty space. My worrying was a direct assault on that pride.
I got the camera connected to his spotty Wi-Fi, the little blue light blinking to life. I felt a pang of something ugly—a mix of guilt and justification. I was doing this for his own good. I had to believe that.
The Innocence of a Live Feed
My hotel room in San Diego was sterile and impersonal, smelling of industrial-grade cleaner. I tossed my blazer on the bed and immediately pulled out my phone, my thumb hovering over the new blue icon for the Aura Home app. It felt illicit, like I was about to peek in a diary.
The feed flickered to life. There he was. Frank, asleep in his recliner, his mouth slightly open, a rerun of MASH* playing to an empty room. I watched for five minutes, my heart aching. He was fine. He was just old. My paranoia felt like a character flaw, a symptom of a daughter who lived five hours away and was trying to manage her guilt with technology.
The next two days were a wash of the same. I’d check the feed between conference sessions, in the elevator, before I went to sleep. Frank napping. Frank eating a microwaved dinner. Frank shuffling to the kitchen for a glass of water. Each mundane scene was a small absolution. See? He’s fine. You’re overreacting.
On Wednesday afternoon, my phone buzzed with a notification. Motion Detected in Living Room.
My stomach tightened. I opened the app. The feed showed the front door closing, and then my cousin Jessica walked into frame, a bag of groceries in her arms. She was twenty-eight, my aunt’s youngest, and had always held the official family title of “the sweet one.”
“Uncle Frank!” she chirped. I could hear her clearly through my phone’s speaker. “I brought you those lemon cookies you like.”
I watched, my body relaxing as she put the groceries on the coffee table. She fluffed the pillow behind his head and listened patiently as he recounted a convoluted plotline from a detective show. She was doting, attentive, everything a loving niece should be. I felt a wave of profound relief, followed by a hot flush of shame for ever suspecting my own family. I closed the app. He was in good hands.
About the Author
