Mom called at two in the morning, our time. I took the tablet into the closet so nobody would hear.

She was in her office in Singapore, still in her hard hat, the bridge lights glowing through the window behind her.

“Maddie, sweetheart. What's wrong?”

So I told her. All of it. The chore list. The box room. The content studio. The trash bag. The piano. Ethan cleaning up after the dog while Brittany filmed him. The photo of her on the mantel.

I showed her pictures. The list on the fridge. My tiny room.

Mom didn't cry. She didn't shout. She went very calm and very quiet, the way she does when she's solving a problem with a bridge.

“Listen to me,” she said. “Don't say anything to your dad or Brittany. Keep doing what they ask, for now. But keep a list. Dates. What happened. Screenshots, if you can.”

“Mom, Dad said you'd lose your job if I told you—”

“Maddie.” Her voice was soft. “No job in the world is more important than you and Ethan. I need ten days to hand over the project properly. Then I'm coming home.”

She paused.

“And sweetheart? Do you know whose name is on the house?”