My son Ben arrived at my house carrying his eight-month-old daughter in one arm and an overstuffed diaper bag in the other.
He looked exhausted.
Not the ordinary kind of exhaustion new parents wear like a second shirt.
This was different.
His hair was damp around the temples, and he kept rubbing the side of his neck
“Laura’s going to be okay,”cafar he said before I could ask. “Broken wrist. Concussion. They’re keeping her overnight.”
I took my granddaughter from him.
“Oh my God. What happened?”
“She slipped on the front stairs.”
“At home?”
Ben nodded.
“I found her at the bottom.”
The baby stirred against my shoulder.
I kissed the soft top of her head.
“Was she carrying her?”
“No. Thank God.”
Ben set the diaper bag on my kitchen table.
“They think Laura lost consciousness for less than a minute.”
I stared at him.
“Were you there?”
“In the garage.”
He answered quickly.
“I heard her fall.”
Something about the way he said it made me look at him twice.
But I was too worried about Laura to push.
Ben needed to return to the hospital, so I began unpacking the bag.
Bottles.
Formula.
Diapers.
Extra clothes.
Wipes.
A stuffed rabbit.
Then I pulled out something familiar.
The red knitted blanket I had made before the baby was born.
At the bottom of the bag sat the baby monitor.
Both pieces.
The nursery camera and the handheld screen.
“Why did you bring this?” I asked.
Ben looked over.
“You’ll need it tonight.”
That made sense.
Except the camera was usually mounted inside their nursery.
And there was something else.
A small playback symbol was blinking in the corner of the handheld screen.
I had used that monitor enough while babysitting to know what it meant.
A recording had been saved.
Ben had just told me the monitor was turned off when Laura fell.
“Does this thing record automatically?”
He glanced at it.
“Sometimes.”
“I thought you said it was off.”
Ben picked up his car keys.
“I don’t know, Mom. Laura messes with the settings.”
Then he kissed the baby twice.
“Call me if she wakes.”
He barely looked at me before leaving.
