I pulled her hand away from the incubator.

The motion knocked the manila folder from her arm.

The documents scattered across the linoleum floor.

I saw a forged birth certificate slide under the counter.

I saw a fake power of attorney form spin stop-side up.

My mother gasped and scrambled to pick them up.

“Look at you,” I said, stepping back to guard the baby. “You’re pathetic.”

She stopped on her knees, her hands clutching the papers.

She looked up at me, her eyes wide and bloodshot.

“I have a right to her,” she whispered. “I have a right.”

Above us, a small red light caught my eye.

A security camera was mounted in the corner of the ceiling.

It was pointing directly at the incubator.

It was pointing directly at her.

“Do you see that?” I asked, pointing to the lens.

My mother looked up, her face turning pale.

“They’re recording everything,” I said. “Every single second.”

She stood up slowly, clutching the papers to her chest.

“They won’t believe you,” she said, though her voice lacked its earlier confidence.