The old woman slept soundly now, her breathing shallow beneath the floral quilt.

“I am doing this for her,” he hissed, pointing a finger at his mother.

“By keeping her locked in a bedroom?” I asked.

“You don’t understand what they do to people like her in those state facilities,” he said, his eyes darting to the window.

“They drug them until they can’t speak, they let them rot in their own filth.”

“There are private homes, Nathan, medical clinics where she could get real help.”

“No,” he snapped, his voice cutting through the quiet room.

“I am the doctor here. I know what is best for her.”

He took a step toward me, his chest rising and falling rapidly.

“She stays here, under my roof, where I can monitor her.”

It wasn’t about her safety; I could see it in the rigid line of his jaw.

It was about his absolute command over this house, over every person inside it.

He needed to be the one who decided when she slept, when she ate, and what she remembered.