Homemade Footage

Home Footage

The baby monitor sat on the chest of drawers, but instead of facing her sons crib, its lens was aimed at the bedroom door. It was only when a strange womans laugh crackled through the kitchen receiverits static noise hissing on the windowsillthat Emily noticed.

She didnt even look up at first. Her tea had gone cold, the faint scent of chamomile barely noticeablealmost like waterthe kettle clicked off, and in the flat, it was so quiet that any extra sound stood out immediately. Her son had been asleep for over an hour. William had messaged at half past eight, saying hed be late at the office. Friday evening dragged on endlessly, stretching out like golden syrup on a spoon, and throughout the night Emily caught herself thinking: everythings in place, yet I feel unsettled.

The hissing grew louder.

She turned towards the windowsill, picked up the receiver with both hands. The plastic was slightly warm, the little green light blinking steadilyjust as it should. Then she heard muffled breathing, the faint sound of someone movingand then a mans voice. William spoke softly, but she recognised him at once. She froze, because he wasnt in the nursery, or the hallway, or anywhere near their son.

He was somewhere far from home.

And there was a woman with him.

Emily turned down the volume, almost as if that would change what she heard. It didnt. The woman said something, low and laughing, too muddled to catch, and then William replied, clear as day:

Hold on. Shes probably in the kitchen by now. Thats when she usually has her tea.

Emilys thumb missed the button at first. She pressed againthis time more carefullylowering the volume, though the sounds didnt vanish. The receiver kept pulsing with someone else’s life. Thats how it feltnot like interference, not a glitch, but as if a stranger were with them in their home, in their usual evening, intruding into her habit of sipping tea once her son was asleep.

Her gaze moved slowly towards the hallway. From the kitchen, she could see the bedroom door, and further on, the half-dark nursery beyond the barely-open door. Emily walked there barefoot, feeling the chill of the floor against her feet, and stopped at the chest of drawers.

The camera really was pointing away.

Not at the cot, nor at the window, nor at the armchair where she sometimes sat holding her boy. The lens was focused straight at the door, catching a slice of corridor and half the master bedroom. William had installed it twelve days ago. Said it made things safer. That their son was older now, might wake during the night, and if Emily was in the kitchen or bathroom, shed hear straight away. Back then, it made sense. Now her mouth went dry at the thought of how many evenings he mightve been watching her instead of their son.

She heard Williams voice from the kitchen again. Softer, this time.

I said not now.

Emily returned to the receiver, set it down, and suddenly remembered the tablet. Their old onekept in the sideboard, between her recipe book and a packet of baby wipes. William had set up the app himself when he brought the baby monitor home. Hed said it was more convenient if they both had access. He said it as if he were doing something important and grown-up for their family. Back then he always spoke that way. For a family to be real, it should be transparent. A real family, he said, has no secrets.

Emily grabbed the tablet, switched it on, and sat at the table.

The screen lit up slowly. Her fingers felt cold, even though the sticky March heat filled the kitchenthe radiator below the window breathing dry warmth, the mugs handle hot. The app opened on a blue screen. The camera icon flashed. Below, a scrolling list of dates.

Archive.

She stared at that word as if it was brand new to her. Then she tapped.

There were loads of recordings.

Not one or two. Six days worth. Short clips, long stretches, nighttime snippets, daytime shadows, sound, movement, an empty nursery, her own footsteps through the hall. Emily opened a random file, saw herself from behind. Grey cardigan, hair hastily gathered, a baby bottle in her hand. She entered, straightened her sons blanket, bent over the cot, and left. The video lasted forty seconds. She opened the next. It showed the kitchen, filmed through the open door. Not fully, but enough: the device was watching her.

She scrolled further.

She was in every video. Not her son. Not his peaceful sleeping. Her.

Emily tapped a recording marked Wednesday, 9:22pm. Through the speakers, Williams voice driftednot nearby, but from a distant room.

See? Told you. Around now shes having tea and scrolling her phone.

A woman laughed.

You spy on your wife through the baby monitor?

Dont make a drama of it. I just want to know what shes doing.

The silence in the kitchen felt so thick that you could hear the faint rustle of her sons duvet from his room. Emily hit pause. Her thumb felt numb, as if the chill of the glass had drawn all the warmth from her hand. Sitting straight-backed, she stared at a crack on the kitchen tiles, a leftover scar from last autumn, when William dropped the casserole dish and spent half the evening cursing his luck.

She pressed play again.

Why do you even care? the woman asked.

Of course I care what goes on at home.

In your home, or in her head?

A little laugh from William.

Same thing, isnt it?

Emily muted the sound.

It took her a whole minute to get up. She didnt cry. She didnt cradle her head or throw the tablet, though she felt the impulse as strong as stillness pressing at her chestlike even the quiet of the flat was waiting for her to explode. Instead, she washed her hands under the cold tap. The water ran over her fingers, wrists, across her palms. As she watched each droplet hit the metal sink, she thought, if she didnt keep her hands busy right now, shed grip the edge of the sink so hard her nails would go white.

William arrived home just before eleven.

By that time, shed managed to watch five more recordings, heard the name Olivia, and discovered far too much about herself. William knew, down to the day, when shed rung her mother and complained about exhaustion. He knew she hadnt napped for a month, even when their son slept. He knew how many times she checked the nursery window before bed, and how long she stayed awake in the kitchen after the flat had gone quiet. She used to think he guessed her mood; now it all seemed much dirtier and much simpler.

When the key turned in the lock, Emily had already slid the tablet back into the sideboard and washed her mug.

Still up? William called from the hallway.

I waited for you.

He came into the kitchen, tall, dressed in a deep navy shirt with rolled sleeves, phone in one hand, grocery bags in the other. His temples had been touched with grey for a while, and on other evenings Emily found it almost endearing, as if age added reliability. Tonight all she saw was the phonethe very device through which hed listened in on their home, and shared it with some other woman.

Got yoghurts for him, William said, placing a bag on the table. And cottage cheese for you. Youd run out.

His words were so ordinary. Almost too ordinary. That was the worst part. The man shed heard just hours earlier, discussing with another woman the time his wife had her tea, stood casually by their table, pulling bread from a bag.

Thanks, she replied.

He peered at her intently.

You look pale. Headache?

No.

Whats wrong, then?

She dried her hands on the towel, folded it in half, unfolded it again.

Just tired.

William nodded. Didnt seem suspicious. Or maybe just pretended not to be. He was always tricky to read. He could explain away anything if he was caught, and knew when to keep quiet if silence served him better than talk. Emily remembered how, a year before, hed persuaded her to switch to a joint bank card. For convenience, hed said. Everything out in the open. Shed never guessed his so-called love of transparency only applied when her life was the glass one.

That night, she couldnt sleep.

Her son whimpered in his sleep a couple of times, coughed once, and every time, Emily got up before he even needed her. William lay next to her, breathing evenly, the soft whistling she knew so well. He slept on his back, arms splayed, like someone with not a care in the world. Emily stared into the darkness, combing through the past few months, inch by inch. His odd little questions. His accuracy. His seemingly casual: Spoke with your mum for ages today, didnt you? His offhand: You skipped lunch again? His gentle: You seem done in. No one could know that much unless someone told them, or unless they were watching.

By morning, the one thing she was sure of: she couldnt bring it up straight away.

Shed lived too long with a man whose first instinct was to fill the room with words. Hed start explaining, confusing, twisting everything, painting her as a paranoid wife seeing things where there was nothing. She already heard his coming lines in her head. You misunderstood. It wasnt even about you. Olivias just a colleague. I worry about the baby. Youre just overthinking everything. He was good at thisturning the plainest thing inside out, so that the blame landed not on the thing, but on her reaction to it.

Saturday morning, he was all gentleness.

Too gentle. He went to their son first, got him dressed, made porridge, even washed upsomething he rarely did. Emily watched him play on the rug, toss their sons sock in the air, pick up a dropped spoon, and all the while, she thought about how a person could be both a devoted father and a distant observer in his own home.

Why are you so quiet? William asked when they were alone in the kitchen.

Am I usually chatterbox?

Sometimes. Not today.

Emily opened the fridge, got out her sons yoghurt, shut the door.

Slept badly.

Because of him?

No. Just in general.

He moved closer, laid a hand on her shoulder. That used to comfort her. Now it sent a cold shiver straight down her spine, and she had to clench her jaw.

Emily, come on. Everythings fine between us.

And there it wasthe everyday nature of the lie. Not the lie itself, but its slippers and mug of tea, as if the lie had the run of the place.

She didnt turn around.

Of course.

Youre not even looking at me.

I am.

No, youre not.

She finally met his gaze. William was already wearing the sort of smile shed once thought patient during their early years. Now it looked different: the confidence of a man holding onto the conversation like a doorknob. Refusing to let it close.

Have you got some idea into your head? he asked.

No.

Thank God.

He left the kitchen, joining their son, not noticing the way her fingers stayed white-knuckled on the table edge.

The day dragged on. Emily lived it out like someone aware of a gaping space beneath the floorboards, still forced to get on with the business of the house: washing plates, folding tiny socks, throwing the window open for air, making soup. Every familiar object had a new weight. The tablet wasnt just old tech anymore. The baby monitor was no longer just for the baby. Williams phone was no longer just a phone.

Later, when hed popped out for nappies, Emily reopened the archive.

The blue light wavered across the screen. The kitchen smelled of leftover soup and the damp dust from the window. Emily watched video after videonot for proof of cheating, though thats what first came to mind, but to find the border. She had to pinpoint when everything became foreign. What day, what moment.

She found her answer in Thursdays recording.

William was talking to Oliviadifferent now: no jokes, just businesslike.

Does she suspect? Olivia asked.

Not yet.

And if she starts digging?

Let her dig. Ive got it all saved.

Really?

Really.

A long pause. In those seconds, Emilys teeth clenched together.

Youre going too far, Olivia said quietly.

Im thinking ahead.

About the child, too?

You have to.

Emily paused the clip. Sat up straighter. In her sons room, all was quiet. Someone slammed a car door outside, laughter drifted through the ceiling. The world carried on with its ordinary Saturday, and here she was, holding Williams private version of their family. A version where hed been collecting thingswhat for? A confrontation? An excuse? For a future in which he could show what she was: tired, silent, sleepless, staying up too long in the kitchen?

She found it hard to breathe. Not shallow or deepbut just enough for the air to get caught somewhere under her ribs.

She played on.

Hear yourself? Olivia asked.

I know Im doing the right thing.

William, this isnt about looking after her anymore.

Then what?

Its about control.

He chuckled.

Bit dramatic.

It fits.

Emily closed the file.

Thats where it shifted. Up till that point, she could have chalked it upnot easily, but almostto an affair, dirty laughs, a stupid mans certainty he wouldnt get caught. But the talk of controlcool, calm, deliberatechanged the whole picture. It wasnt a mistake. Not one night. Not a stupid step. This was a plan, a setup, arranged almost like a system.

In the evening, William returned, wearing the same easy expression.

He brought groceries, sat on the floor with their son, read him a story about a tractor, and in between, asked:

You didnt call your mum today?

His question was casualalmost lazy. Emily felt it like a tap on the back.

No.

Odd. You usually ring her on Saturdays.

Forgot.

Hmm.

He turned a page, the paper rustling softly in his hands. Just a word, just a sound. But inside it, like a pin in a sleeve, was the precision of someone counting up her habits.

He barely talked over dinner. Emily talked less. Their son nodded off, drumming his toddler spoon on the table, dropping bits of bread. Only he seemed to live this night for real, with no hidden layer or eavesdropped secrets. When William went to wash him up, Emily quickly grabbed the tablet and opened the latest recording.

It was almost brand new.

Saturday night, early Sunday. William must have logged in after shed already gone to bed. The first seconds were just an empty hallway. Then, footsteps, whispering, the faint sound of a car, and Olivias voicecloser now than before.

Are you sure youre not overdoing this?

Im sure.

Even if it comes to splitting up?

Emily froze at the worduttered so calmly, as though it was just the weather for Tuesday.

If it comes to that, William said, Ill have proof that the childs better off with me.

Olivia said nothing.

He went on:

Youve heard hershe doesnt sleep. Shes stressed. Sits up half the night in the kitchen. Forgets to eat. Its all on record.

William…

What? I have to think of my son.

You talk like youve already decided.

I havent decided anything. Im just being prepared.

Emily didnt listen any further. She set the tablet down and put her hand over her mouth, although no one was there to hear her. There it wasthat was the real depth. Not the odd chat. Not some empty flirtation. But him, collecting bits of her life. Not to understand herbut for convenience, for his own version, for the day hed open a folder and say: see, I spied for a reason.

The kitchen clock ticked too loudly. Or maybe only seemed that way.

Emily sat up through dawn. No tears. No pacing the flat. She didnt text her mother, though her hand reached for her mobile more than once. Instead, she stared at the dark, blank screen, and felt something settle inside hersteady, not light or warm, but solid. Like a pantry shelf, where you line up jars, one by one. A fact. Then another. And another. Until the truth has weight.

Her son woke early, demanding the world as alwaysporridge, cup, ball, window, his mum, his dad. William picked him up, actually laughed when the boy tugged at his collar. Emily watched them, and remembered another, different Williams voice: cold, calculated, certain that he was thinking ahead.

By ten, their son was sleeping again.

Thats when she decidedshe wouldnt wait any more.

The kitchen was awash with pale light. Two mugs sat on the tableone untouched. William was scrolling through news on his phone. Emily entered, set the baby monitor down beside the tablet.

He looked up.

Whats this?

We need to talk.

Right now?

Yes.

There was no plea or gentleness left in her voice. William heard it. He set his phone down, screen facing the table.

Whats going on?

Emily sat opposite, hands finding the edge of the rough seat, gripping it, as if it was steadier than any words.

I want a straight answer, she said. Just one. No speeches.

William gave a dry laugh, though his face had already sharpened.

Go on, then.

Emily touched the tablets screen.

Why did you point the camera at me, not our son?

He didnt answer straight away. That silence was her real answer: not outrage, not surprise, not a quick counter-questionjust a pause. Short, but far too heavy for an innocent man.

What on earth are you on about? he said finally.

Emily hit play.

From the speaker came the familiar static, the half-whisper, a strangers laugh. Then Williams own voicecalm, self-assured, living a life separate from the man sitting at her table.

I just want to know what she gets up to.

William jerked back so sharply his chair creaked. He reached for the tablet, but Emily was faster, hand over the screen.

Dont.

He pulled away.

Where did you get that?

In the archive. The one you set up.

His face was slow to change. For a second or two, he tried to rely on old habitsthat knack he had for twisting things. But the recording rolled on. Olivia asking if she could dig. His assurance that he had everything saved. Her saying it was about control. And every fresh snippet of his voice stole a sliver of his power.

Turn it off, he said.

No.

Emily, turn it off.

No.

He rubbed his face. Stood, sat back down.

You dont understand the context.

Then explain. Briefly.

I was worried about our son.

Emily fast-forwardedto the part where he mentioned more stable hands.

After that, William shut his eyes.

Brieflya second. But it was enough.

Once more, Emily said quietly. No frills. Why were you watching me?

I wasnt.

Whats this, then?

I was monitoring the situation at home.

With another woman?

A twitch in his cheek.

Olivia doesnt come into it.

Dont. She does.

Youre mixing everything up.

No. Ive separated it. The thing with Olivia is one thing. The camera is another. The talks about our sonanother. And in each, youre lying.

William stood again, walked to the window but didnt open it. His reflection on the glass made him look hollow, not older.

Youre in such a state…

Go on, finish.

He turned.

Its hard to talk to you right now.

Easier with her?

What does that have to do with it?

You talked about mewith her. My tea. My sleep. My calls. My tiredness. My son, whom youve already imagined justifying to someone else.

Hes my son, too.

Then why were you collecting evidence on me, instead of helping?

For once, he was truly lost. Not over the affair, not over Olivias name, but at the word evidence. Because it was exactno shouting, no frills, no hiding behind concern.

You have no idea how hard it is, doing it all by myself, he said, barely above a whisper.

Emily met his gaze.

By yourself?

He looked away.

I work. I provide. I come home and see youre not coping.

So you put a camera on me?

Dont make this a drama.

Even now?

I wanted to understand what was happening.

You wanted to control what was happening.

William gave a nervous laugh.

Thats nicely put. Did your mum help you?

Emily shook her head.

No. You did. You recorded everything.

The kitchen fell silent. They both heard their son shift in bed and sigh softly in his sleep. The sound contracted everything in Emily into a single line. Her son was safe. The house stood. The tea cooled. And in that ordinariness, decisions lived she wouldnt have believed herself capable of making three days earlier.

Youll be leaving today, she told him.

William looked up.

What?

Today.

Have you lost your mind?

No.

This is my home too.

Yes. But today youll go.

On what grounds?

Because Im not staying here with someone who listened in on my life through a baby monitor, and discussed with his Olivia whose hands our son would be safer in.

He slammed his palm on the table. Not too hard, but it made her mug jump.

Stop this nonsense.

Emily didnt blink.

Youve said all you needed to. Theres nothing left to add.

And what now? Run off to your mother?

Now, Im turning off the camera. Youll pack your things.

You cant just decide for both of us.

I already have.

He stared at hertoo long. And in those seconds, Emily saw a strange thing: not anger, not pain, not regret. Just frustration. Someones plan had been spoiled. Someone hadnt managed to play his hand first. Thatthe disappointmentwas the last straw.

William looked away first.

Fine, he said. Calm down. Well talk properly tonight.

No. Now.

I wont leave without my son.

Youll go alone.

Dont order me around.

Pack your things, William.

He wanted to argue, but then a small, sleepy voice sounded from the nursery. Their little boy had woken up. Emily stood up straight away. William did, tooby habit. But she lifted a hand, and he stopped in his tracks.

No. Ill go.

She went to the nursery, took her son in her arms, breathed in that familiar scentbaby lotion, warm skin, sleep. He burrowed his nose into her neck, and that simple touch was enough to keep her from falling apart. Emily rocked him gently and gazed at the baby monitor with its steady green light still glowing on the kitchen table. How many times had William watched her like this? How many times had he listened to the background noises that should have belonged to just the three of them?

By midday, William had packed a bag.

Not his whole lifehe hadnt the courage, or maybe the imagination. A few shirts, a charger, his razor, some documents. As he left, he tried once more to drown everything in words.

Youre wrecking a family over a single conversation.

Emily, her son in her arms, said nothing.

Over one conversation, he repeated, as if repetition might make it true. Youre not even trying to understand.

I understand enough.

You dont.

Stop.

What will you tell people?

The truth.

He gave a half-smile.

What truth? That your husband installed a baby monitor?

Yes.

So?

So the camera wasnt pointing at the baby.

Williams knuckles went tight around the bag.

Youll regret the way youre acting.

Maybe. But I wont regret hearing the truth from you.

He had nothing left to say.

The door shut quietlyno banging, no drama. The lift whirred, someone coughed in the hall, and the flat became a home again. But inside, everything was set out differently now. Like the furniture after a move. Same walls, same mugs, same table. But the lines between things had changed.

That afternoon, Emily barely did anything.

She fed her son, changed him into socks with grey stripes, packed some of his clothes into a bag, rang her mum, and just said: Williams living elsewhere for now. Her mum paused for a breath, then asked if they were coming over that evening. Emily replied, maybe by night. Nothing more. She didnt have the energy to explain. Explanations come later. At first theres only the silence in which you must walk from one room to another, and remember to switch off the kettle.

By evening, she went back to the nursery.

The room hadnt changed much. The blue sleepsuit with the rocket was drying on the radiator. A grey blanket lay on the armchair. The camera sat on the chest of drawers: black shell, tiny lens, little green light. Emily stepped closer and stared for a long time, as if it were not plastic but the residue of someone elses gaze, still not quite gone from the house.

She picked up the monitor.

Her hands didnt shake. That surprised her more than anything. Two days of inner chill, sleepless hours, silent private reckoningperhaps her hands were simply too tired to tremble. She turned over the device, found the plug, pulled it out from the socket.

The green light blinked out instantly.

And in the nursery, the quiet was so deeplike the kind you only get in places where no ones listening any longer.