Chapter 9 - THE LAST RECORDING
Five years after the bathroom door, the baby-monitor company emailed me.
My cloud subscription was still active.
I had forgotten.
Most recordings had been exported for evidence and preserved legally where required.
The consumer account still contained clips.
Thousands.
Liam crying.
Me singing.
Brandon talking.
Rosalyn.
Police.
Our old life.
The company planned to migrate systems.
I could download everything.
Or delete the account.
I stared at the screen for two hours.
Then I called Noah.
“What would you do?”
“Delete it.”
“That fast?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“You have the evidence you legally need.”
“That’s not what I mean.”
“I know.”
He became quiet.
“You don’t need a machine to prove it happened anymore.”
That was exactly the problem.
For years, recordings had made me feel sane.
Every time doubt returned, evidence existed.
See?
He said it.
See?
She planned it.
See?
I didn’t imagine anything.
Dr. Parker asked:
“What do you think happens if the recordings disappear?”
“I’m afraid I’ll soften it.”
“Why would that be dangerous?”
“I don’t want to forget.”
“Not forgetting and repeatedly reliving are different.”
I knew.
Still, I waited.
Then one Saturday, Liam climbed onto my office chair.
He was five.
“What’s that?”
“Old baby videos.”
“Of me?”
“Yes.”
“Show me.”
I smiled.
I found one harmless clip.
Liam at two weeks.
Tiny.
Furious.
I was changing his diaper.
My recorded voice:
“Sir, I understand your complaint.”
Baby Liam screamed.
“You may contact management.”
Five-year-old Liam laughed uncontrollably.
“Was I that small?”
“Yes.”
“Show another.”
I clicked.
A file loaded.
Before I could stop it, Brandon’s voice played.
“She’s exhausted.”
I froze.
Liam stopped laughing.
“Is that Dad?”
I closed the window.
“Yes.”
“Why do you look scared?”
I looked at my son.
Because I realized that keeping everything had a cost too.
The archive did not distinguish between evidence and memory.
Between his first smile and a conspiracy to hurt his mother.
I did.
That was my job now.
I saved the beautiful clips.
First bath.
First time Liam rolled over.
My terrible 3 a.m. songs.
Noah assembling the crib incorrectly.
Frank—before he died—in one old clip laughing as Brandon struggled with a diaper.
Complicated memory.
But still memory.
Then I deleted the rest from my personal account.
Not legal evidence.
That remained preserved appropriately.
My copies.
Gone.
The final clip was the emergency call.
My whisper.
Brandon outside the door.
The monitor.
The key.
I hovered over delete.
Liam was downstairs.
Laughing with Noah.
I pressed it.
Gone.
Nothing happened.
The room remained.
I remained.
My memory remained.
But the event no longer had a permanent seat on my desk.
That night, I slept eight hours.
May you like
I could not remember the last time I had done that.
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