“Put the phone down, Jake.”
My mother stood in the doorway, watching the screen in my hand.
Three blocked numbers.
Megan’s sister. Her best friend. Her obstetrician.
“Why are these blocked?”
“Because you work yourself to death,” Mom said. “You don’t need people calling with every little complaint.”
“Did you touch my phone?”
“You gave me the passcode.”
For emergencies.
I had given it to her for emergencies.
Behind me, Megan began crying harder.
The dispatcher’s voice came through the speaker.
“Sir? Is your wife having any abdominal pain?”
Megan nodded.
I repeated her answer.
“Help is on the way. Stay with her.”
Mom set the laundry basket down.
“I’ll get her shoes.”
“Don’t touch anything.”
She looked at me as if I had struck her.
Then she looked past me.
“Megan, tell him.”
My wife lowered her head.
I moved between them.
“She doesn’t have to talk to you.”
For several seconds, the apartment was silent except for the dispatcher.
Then Mom picked up her purse.
At the hospital, a nurse asked to speak with Megan alone.
I stepped outside immediately.
My mother tried to follow her into the examination room.
The nurse blocked the doorway.
“Just the patient for now.”
“I’m the grandmother.”
“You can wait here.”
Mom sat beside me, smoothing her skirt.
“She’s going to make this sound terrible.”
I stared at her.
“What is she going to make sound terrible?”
“The fall.”
“What fall?”
She opened her mouth.
The examination-room door opened before she answered.
“Jake?” the nurse said. “Your wife is asking for you.”
Megan lay beneath a white sheet with monitors around her stomach. A steady heartbeat filled the room.
I nearly collapsed with relief.
Dr. Patel pulled up a chair.
“We’re monitoring some contractions. Right now, the baby’s heartbeat is reassuring, but Megan needs treatment and observation.”
I sat beside her.
“What happened to your legs?”
She looked at the closed door.
“She can’t come in,” the nurse assured her.
Megan swallowed.
“Three weeks ago, I told Patricia I didn’t want her staying with us after the birth.”
I remembered that conversation. Mom had already bought a folding bed.
“I said we needed time alone with the baby. She called me ungrateful. I tried to walk away.”
Megan stopped.
I waited.
“She grabbed my arms. I lost my balance on the kitchen rug. The kettle was on the counter.”
Her eyes closed.
“The water hit my leg.”
I looked at the dressing.
“She said it was an accident. Then she said if I told you, I’d make you choose between your wife and your mother.”
“You could have called me.”
“I did.”
The words were barely audible.
“Not that day. Later. She was always there when you worked. She took my phone because she said I needed rest.”
I remembered Mom handing it to me once.
Battery’s dead. I’ll charge it.
“Megan, why didn’t you tell me when I came home?”
“She said you already knew.”
My hand went still around hers.
“She said you told her to keep helping. That you were tired of me making everything difficult.”
I bent over her hand.
“I never said that.”
“I know that now.”
She began crying again.
“But every night you thanked her.”
There was no answer I could give that would make those nights different.
A hospital social worker came in. Megan agreed to speak with her and asked me to stay.
When she finished, I stepped into the hallway to call her sister.
Mom rose from her chair.
“Well?”
“Megan wants you to leave.”
“What did she tell you?”
“Enough.”
“You’re exhausted, Jake. You’re letting her upset you.”
“Give me our spare key.”
Her expression hardened.
For the first time in my life, I held out my hand and waited.
She dropped it into my palm.
Then she leaned close.
“Ask her about the recording before you decide who to believe.”
I watched her walk toward the elevators.
When I returned, Megan was staring at the doorway.
“What recording?” I asked.
Her face drained.
“Did she say that?”
I nodded.
Megan reached for my hand.
“The nursery camera. We tested it the morning she came over.”
I remembered setting it on the bookshelf, facing the crib.
The kitchen doorway was visible behind it.
“I couldn’t get into the account,” Megan whispered. “It’s under your email.”
I opened the camera app.
There was a saved clip from three weeks earlier.
On the thumbnail, Megan stood in the kitchen.
My mother stood behind her.
I pressed play.
First came the sound of a chair scraping.
Then Megan’s voice.
“Patricia, let go. You’re hurting me.”
My mother stepped into view.
And before the kettle fell, I heard her answer.
“Then stop trying to leave.”
