The hallway camera doesn’t blink. That’s what I tell myself now—on the days when memory gaslights. There is a record. It saw my father’s hand move where it shouldn’t. It heard my sister whisper what she shouldn’t. It kept time while my body tried not to run out of it. Weeks later, a woman from social work with a warm voice and a legal spine would say, “Rebecca, would you like to press charges?” and I would say, “Yes,” with a steadiness that startled even me. But that was after. Before, there was