Home Video
The baby monitor sat on top of the chest of drawers, its lens focused not on my sons cot, but on the bedroom door. I only noticed the shift at the very moment a strange womans laughter crackled through the speaker perched on the kitchen windowsill.
I didnt look up at once. The tea in my mug had gone cold, the faint scent of chamomile now almost lost to water, the kettle had clicked off ages ago, and it was so still in the flat that any unexpected sound seized my attention. My son had been asleep for over an hour. Robert had texted around half-past eight to say hed be late at the office. This Friday dragged on with that stickiness reminiscent of honey left too long in the sun, and all evening, a single thought kept circling: everythings in its place at home, yet I cant find my peace.
The hissing over the monitor grew more insistent.
I turned, walked over, and cupped the receiver in both hands. The plastic was warm, the small green light winking steadily as ever. Through the speaker, I caught muted breathing, some gentle rustle, and then a mans voice. Roberts. I recognised him instantly, and froze, for he wasnt in the nursery, or the hall, or anywhere near our child.
He was somewhere far from home.
And beside him was a woman.
Almost on instinct, I turned down the volume, as if that might somehow change what Id heard. It did not. The woman murmured something, brief and edged with a smirk; the words muddled, but Roberts reply cut clear:
Just wait. Shes probably in the kitchen now. She always has tea at this hour.
My thumb missed the button. I pressed it again, steadily, making the noise softer, but it didnt vanish. The monitor continued to pulse with a life that wasnt my own. Thats how it feltnot like interference, or a glitch, but an intrusion, someone else living inside the quiet, inside the ritual of tea once my child slept.
I looked down the hallway, glancing through to the bedroom door, ajar, and the shadowy nursery beyond. Padding barefoot over the cool floor, I stopped by the chest of drawers.
The camera was, indeed, pointed away from the cot.
Not facing the baby, nor the window, nor the armchair where I sometimes sat with my son in my arms. Instead, it stared at the doorway, framing a slice of corridor and half of the master bedroom. Robert had set it up twelve days before, assured me it would bring peace of mindthat now our boy was older, waking sometimes in the night, Id always hear him from the kitchen or the bathroom. Then, the explanation had seemed sensible. Now, the thought tasted dry and bitterthat all those evenings, he mightve been watching me instead of our son.
From the kitchen came his voice again, softer now.
Not now, I said.
I replaced the monitor on the sill and suddenly remembered the tablet. The old, shared one sat in the sideboard, pressed between the recipe book and a pack of baby wipes. Robert had set up the app for the monitor himself, insisting it was more convenient when both of us could check in. Hed explained it with such righteous clarityhe always liked to make things sound adult, purposeful, transparent. A proper family shouldnt have secrets, hed said.
I fished out the tablet, tapped it to life, and sat down.
The screen came on reluctantly. My fingers felt cold, even though the kitchen was still with that stifling March warmth, radiators breathing dry heat beneath the window, the handle of my mug still warm. The blue screen flashed up the appcamera icon blinkingbeneath it, a string of dates.
Archive.
It landed heavy; somehow this word looked unfamiliar, dangerous. But I pressed it.
There were plenty of videos.
Not one, two. Six days in a row. Short moments, longer stretches, night fragments, daytime shimmers, sound, movement, empty nursery, my own footfalls in the hall. I opened the first file and saw myself from behindgrey cardigan, hair scraped up hurriedly, babys bottle in hand. I entered, straightened the blanket, leaned into the cot, left. The clip lasted forty seconds. The next video showed the kitchen through a crack in the doorfragmented, but enough to see: the camera was tracking me.
I scrolled further.
Every video captured me. Not our baby. Not his sleep. Me.
I tapped on Wednesday evening9:22 p.m.and Roberts voice reached me from the distance, from another room, another life.
See? Told you. This time she always has tea and her phone.
The woman laughed.
You spy on your wife with the baby monitor?
Dont be dramatic. I just want to know what she gets up to.
The kitchen was so quiet, I could hear the faint shuffle of blankets from the nursery. I pressed pause. My thumb felt numb, as if the tablets screen was draining all warmth from my hand. I sat there, unmoving, staring at the countertop, where the tile had cracked last autumn when Robert dropped a pot and grumbled for an hour about his unlucky day.
I restarted the video.
But do you really care? asked the woman.
I care whats going on at home.
At home, or in her head?
Robert chuckled.
Same thing, really.
I muted the sound.
It took me a full minute to stand. In that minute, I didnt cry, didnt clutch my head, didnt smash the tabletthough the charged air seemed to expect some dramatic outburst. But I only stood, walked to the sink, turned on the tap, and let cold water run over my hands. I watched the beads trickle off my wrists onto the steel basin. Because, I thought, if I didnt keep my hands busy, Id grip the sink until my nails turned white.
Robert came home just before eleven.
By then Id watched five more videos, heard the womans nameClaraand learned much about myself. Robert knew, in painful detail, the day I phoned my mum to complain I was tired; that for two months, I hadnt napped when the baby slept; how many times each evening I checked the nursery window and how long I sat alone in the kitchen once the flat was quiet. I used to think he just guessed my moods. Now it seemed so much more crude.
When the key turned in the lock, Id put the tablet back in the sideboard and washed my mug.
Still up? Robert called from the hallway.
I was waiting for you.
He walked in, tall in his dark blue shirt sleeves rolled, phone in his right hand and a pair of shopping bags. Over his temples the grey had set ina detail Id once found touching, as if age made a man more reliable. Now I saw only the phone, the device he used to listen in on our home and pass it to another.
I got him some yoghurts, Robert said, placing the bags down. And some cottage cheese for you. Yours was finished.
He sounded perfectly normaltoo normal. And that was the worst of it. The man whod spent the evening discussing his wifes tea habits with another woman stood in our kitchen, unpacking bread.
Thanks, I replied.
He looked at me more closely.
You look pale. Headache?
No.
Whats wrong, then?
I dried my hands on the tea towel, folded it, unfolded it again.
Just tired.
Robert nodded, suspecting nothing. Or pretending to. With him, these things blurred. He was always able to over-explain a small mistakeand keep quiet precisely when silence served him best. I remembered how, last year, hed convinced me to start using a joint account for all the family expensesmuch easier, all transparent, everything visible, the sign of a real family. At the time, it never crossed my mind he might prize transparency mainly when it was other peoples lives on display.
I barely slept that night.
Our son whimpered, once coughed, and each time I was at his side before he properly woke. Robert slept soundly, that gentle wheeze of his filling the air, arms spread wide, a man with not a worry in the world. Lying there in the dark, I retraced the last few monthshis odd questions, his precise knowledge, his casual, You had a long chat with your mum today? and almost playful Whyd you skip lunch again? and his near-gentle, Tired, love? No one knows so much unless theyre told. Or unless theyre watching.
By the time dawn broke, I knew: I could not confront him right away.
Too many years with a man who always dived in first, crowding the silence with words. Hed try to explain, deflect, twist my nerves into knots, make me out to be the paranoid wife inventing shadows. I could already hear his lines: You misunderstood. This isnt about you. Claras just a colleague. I was worried about the baby. In your state, everything seems suspect He was always so skilled at wrapping something simple in such a way you ended up feeling the fault lay not in what had happened, but in your reaction.
Robert was almost too gentle the next morning.
He got up first with our son, changed him, cooked porridge, even washed up, rather than leave the dishes all day as usual. I watched as he played with our boy on the rug, tossed his sock, fetched a dropped spoon, and marvelled at how easily someone could be the attentive father and invisible observer at once.
Why so quiet? Robert asked as we lingered in the kitchen.
Am I usually noisy?
You can be. Not today.
I opened the fridge, took out a yoghurt for our son, closed it.
Didnt sleep well.
Because of him?
No. Just in general.
He stepped closer, resting his palm on my shouldera touch Id once found comforting. Now it sent a chill up my spine so sharp I clenched my jaw.
Come on, love. Were all right, arent we?
And that was almost unbearable. Not the lie itself, but its mundane disguiseas if deceit could simply don slippers and help itself to tea each morning.
I didnt turn.
Of course.
Youre not even looking at me.
I am.
No, youre not.
I looked at him at last. Already that tight smile I’d once read as patience in the early yearsnow I saw something else. The confidence of a man certain he can keep the conversation on his terms, never letting it close on the other side.
Have you got something into your head? he asked.
No.
Good.
And off he went to the nursery, not noticing how I gripped the edge of the table.
The day passed slowly. I went through it as someone who knows the floorboards conceal hollow spaces but must go on: carrying plates, washing socks, opening windows, making soup. Every object felt redefined: the tablet in the sideboard was no longer just an old bit of tech; the baby monitor was no longer simply for the baby; Roberts phone was no longer just a phone.
Later, when he left to buy nappies, I opened the archive again.
Pale blue light flickered on the screen. The kitchen smelled of leftover soup and the dust from the windowsill. One clip after another, I studiednot in search of an affair (although life had certainly thrown that possibility my way first), but searching for the boundary. The moment when everything turned alien. What day. Which minute.
I found it in Thursdays recording.
There Roberts tone with Clara was different. No jokes, almost no pretence.
Does she suspect? Clara asked.
Not yet.
And if she starts digging?
Let her dig. Ive got everything saved.
Really?
Really.
A pause. Just a few secondsbut in that time my jaw tightened.
Youre going too far, Clara said.
Im just thinking ahead.
Are you thinking ahead about the baby too?
How could I not?
I paused the video. Sat up straight. The nursery was silent; outside, a car door slammed; upstairs, teenagers laughed. The ordinary Saturday world. But on my tablet was someone elses version of my familya version where my husband was storing evidence. For what? A row? Self-justification? A future where he could prove I was tired, silent, withdrawn, spent too many hours in the kitchen?
Breathing became difficultnot deep, not laboured, just enough to let the air in and trap it under my ribs.
I pressed play again.
Can you hear yourself? Clara asked.
I do, and I know Im right.
Robert, this isnt about caring anymore.
What then?
Control.
He gave a wry laugh.
Big word.
The right one.
I closed the file.
That was the moment everything shifted. Until then, it couldjusthave been shrugged off as an affair, or a careless man caught out. But the conversation around control, businesslike and cold, reframed it all. Not a moment of weakness, not one bad eveningorganised, deliberate, laid out almost as routine.
That evening, Robert returned face composed as ever.
He brought home groceries, sat on the floor with our boy, read a book about tractors, and midway through asked,
Did you call your mum today?
So casual, even lazy the way he put it. But I felt it twist inside.
No.
Odd. You normally call on Saturdays.
I forgot.
Hmm.
He turned the page, the paper giving a low rustle in his hands. There it was. An ordinary word, an ordinary sound, and withinlike a pin in a liningthe sharp accuracy of someone who takes note of your every habit.
At dinner, he spoke little. I spoke less. Our son nodded off at the table, thumping his spoon, dropping toast, the only one in the flat living honestly through this evening, unburdened by secrets. When Robert took him to wash, I quickly pulled out the tablet and found the newest file.
It had been recorded only recently.
Saturday night, after Id gone to bed. The first seconds were just the gloomy corridor. Then footsteps, whispering, a cars hum, Claras voice, close this time.
Are you certain this isnt all too much?
Im sure.
Even if it comes to moving out?
That worduttered as if it were tomorrows weatherstilled me.
If it does, Robert replied, Ill be able to prove the childs better off in my care.
Clara stayed quiet.
He added,
You heard her, shes not sleeping. Shes on edge. She sits up half the night in the kitchen. Forgets to eat. Its all there to see.
Robert…
What? I have to think about my son.
You talk like youve already made up your mind.
I havent decided anything. Im preparing for all outcomes.
I didnt listen to the end. Just lowered the tablet, pressed my hand over my mouththough the flat was emptyovercome by a depth Id never expected. Not a careless word, not a pointless fling. He was collecting pieces of my life. Not to understand meno, for convenience. For ammunition. For the day hed open the folder and say: look, I wasnt spying for nothing.
The clock on the wall ticked too loudlyor maybe it only seemed that way.
I sat until dawn. Didnt weep. Didnt pace. Didnt ring my mother, though my hand reached for the phone. I just watched the screen, blank and black, feeling something inside slotting itself steadily into place. Not light, not warm. Steady. Like a shelf lined slowly with jars. First a fact, then another, then the next. Until truth had weight.
My son woke early, demanding the world: porridge, cup, toy ball, window, mummy, daddy. Robert scooped him up, even laughed when the little one tugged at his collar. I watched them, recalling another Roberts voice: dry, calm, confidentalways thinking ahead.
By ten, our son was asleep again.
Thats when I realised I wouldnt wait any longer.
The kitchen was full of weak morning sunlight. Two mugs stood on the table, one untouched. Robert scrolled through his phone. I walked in, set down the baby monitor, and next to it the tablet.
He looked up.
Whats all this for?
We need to talk.
Now?
Yes.
My tone carried neither request nor softness. Robert heard it, and set his phone down, face down.
Whats going on?
I sat facing him. The seats rough edge gave my hands something to gripfirmer than any words.
I want a single answer, I said. Short. No speeches.
Roberts grin twitched, but concern had crept into his eyes.
Go on, then.
I tapped the tablets screen.
Why did you point the camera at me and not at the baby?
He didnt answer at once. That hesitationthat was my answer. No outrage, no surprise, no sharp rebuttal. A pause. Brief, but too heavy for the innocent.
What on earth are you talking about? he finally managed.
I pressed play.
Familiar whisper, hiss, a strangers laugh. Then Roberts voice, calm, assured, existing separately from the man now sitting at my table.
I just want to know what she gets up to.
Robert flinched hard, his chair squeaking. He reached for the tablet, but I laid my hand down first.
Dont.
He jerked away.
Whered you get that?
From the archivethe one you set up.
His face shifted slowly, still clinging to old habits, that old confidence in turning the situation his way. But the recording continued. Clara talking about me digging. He replying that he had everything. Control. And with each word, his power drained away.
Turn it off, he said.
No.
Alice, turn it off.
No.
He rubbed his face. Got up. Sat again.
You dont know the context.
Then explain. Briefly.
I was worried about the baby.
I fast-forwarded. Stopped on the bit about more stable hands.
After that, Robert closed his eyes.
Just a moment. That was enough.
Once again, I said quietly. Briefly. Why did you spy on me?
I wasnt spying.
Is that what you call this?
I was keeping tabs on things at home.
With another woman?
A muscle jumped in his cheek.
Claras got nothing to do with it.
Dont. She does.
Youre mixing everything up.
Im actually keeping it all separate. What you had with Clara is one thing. The camera is another. Your talk about our son, another. And in every one of themyou lied.
He stood and went to the window, but didnt open it. In its reflection, his face seemed not older, but emptied.
Youre not yourself… he said.
Go on.
He turned.
Youre hard to talk to right now.
But shes easy?
Thats irrelevant.
You discussed me with her. My tea, my sleep, my calls, my exhaustion. My child who youre now preparing to prove is better with you.
Hes my son too.
So why were you gathering evidence on me, not helping?
Here, for the first time, he was properly caught out. Not the videos, not Claras name, but my use of the word evidence. Because it was accurate. Uncoloured, unadorned, unforgiving.
Youve no idea how hard its been doing this alone, he said, voice flat.
I met his gaze.
Alone?
He looked away.
I work. I provide. I come home and youre already not coping.
So you put a camera on me?
Dont be dramatic.
Even now?
I wanted to understand.
No, you wanted to control.
He gave a thin laugh.
Youve got the words for it, havent you? Been talking to your mum?
I shook my head slowly.
No. You helped. You recorded it all.
Silence pressed in, broken only by the sound of our son as he rolled over in his sleep. The simplicity of it all bit into me. The child slept. The house stood. Tea cooled. And right here, the unthinkable unfolded.
Youll leave today, I said.
Roberts head snapped up.
What?
Today.
Youre mad.
No.
Its my home too.
Today, you leave.
On what grounds?
Because Im not staying here with someone who listened in on my life and discussed with his Clara whose hands our son fits best.
He slammed his hand on the tablenot hard, but the mugs rattled.
Get a grip, Alice.
I didnt flinch.
You said it yourself. Theres nothing more to say.
And what then? Run to your mum?
Ill turn off the camera. Youll pack your things.
Youve no right to decide alone.
I just did.
He stared at me, too long. And then, I saw itnot anger, not regret, but simple disappointment. The plan ruined. He wasnt the first to lay down the cards. That, more than anything, decided it for me.
Robert looked away first.
Fine. Calm down. Well talk properly tonight.
No. Now.
Im not leaving without my son.
Youll leave alone.
Dont order me about.
Pack your things, Robert.
He started to object, but the thin voice of our son called out from the nursery. I stood up instantly. So did Robert, by habit, but I raised my hand.
No. Ill go.
I entered the nursery, scooped my son up, pressed him close, breathing in the baby lotion, the warm sleep, the soft skin. He burrowed into my neck and it was enough, enough to keep myself together. I could see the monitors green light on the kitchen table through the door. How many times, I wondered, had he watched me like this? How many times tuned into the soundtrack of our homemeant only for us three?
By midday, Robert had packed a bag.
Not his whole lifehe hadnt the nerve or imagination for that. A few shirts, razor, documents, charger. At the door, he tried to fill our space with words one more time.
Youre breaking up our family over one conversation.
With my son in my arms, I just looked at him.
Over one conversation, Robert repeated, as if repetition could arm him. Youre not even trying to understand.
I understand everything.
No, you dont.
Enough.
What will you tell people?
The truth.
He gave a crooked smile.
What truth? That your husband put up a baby monitor?
Yes.
And?
And that the camera wasnt on the child.
He gripped his bag.
Youll regret this, Alice.
Maybe. But I wont regret hearing you for who you are.
He fell silent.
The door closed softlynot with a bang, not dramatic, just the click of the lock, the lift sounding beyond, someone coughing on the stairs. The flat returned to itself. Yet everything inside stood differently nowas if the furniture had been rearranged. Same walls. Same mugs. Same table. But the shape of things had changed.
I did almost nothing that afternoon.
Fed my son, changed his striped socks, packed up a few of his things, phoned Mum and simply said, Robert will be living elsewhere for now. She hesitated, asked if wed come round later. I said perhaps by evening. No more explanationI hadnt the energy yet. That comes later. At first, theres only silence, in which you walk careful room to room, remembering to turn off the kettle.
Towards evening I entered the nursery again.
It was nearly unchanged. The blue sleepsuit drying on the radiator, a grey blanket on the chair, and the camera on the dresserblack, small, with its own green eye. I stepped up, studied it for a long time, as if it could capture the last of someone elses gaze.
I picked it up.
My fingers no longer shook. That surprised me more than anything. All the cold, the sleepless hours, the quiet inner work of those daysmy hands had simply worn out their shaking. I turned the camera round, found the cord, and pulled it from the plug.
The green light went out at once.
And in the nursery there was a hush you only get where no one is listening anymore.
