The man who cried when Leo was born.
The man who once drove forty minutes at midnight because I mentioned wanting strawberry ice cream during pregnancy.
That man still appeared occasionally.
Just often enough to make me question the other one.
I put Leo into his playpen in the adjoining family room.
Then I returned to the kitchen with paper towels and a trash bag.
My vision blurred.
I refused to cry in front of Barbara.
Outside, Max kept barking.
Not the long Husky howl he normally used when offended.
Short, sharp barks.
He would bark twice.
Pause.
Scratch the door.
Then look toward the destroyed cake.
Twice.
Pause.
Scratch.
Look.
“Enough!”
Greg shouted through the glass.
Max ignored him.
I knelt beside the island.
Blue frosting coated my fingers.
My son’s name, which had been piped beautifully across the bottom layer, was now broken into three pieces.
LE.
O.
I picked up the cardboard cake base.
Max barked again.
Something inside the collapsed center layer shifted.
A hard object scraped against the floor.
I stopped.
For a second, I thought it was one of the wooden dowels bakers use to support stacked cakes.
I moved the frosting aside.
There was plastic underneath.
Black plastic.
Rectangular.
Wrapped several times in clear food wrap.
A tiny red light blinked in the center.
Blink.
Pause.
Blink.
I stared.
The room seemed to shrink around me.
“What is that?”
I whispered.
Greg turned.
His face changed before he spoke.
That was the moment everything started.
Not when I realized it was some kind of recording device.
Not when Max destroyed the cake.
Not when Greg shoved me.
It started when I watched my husband recognize the object in my hand.
The anger left his face instantly.
In its place came fear.
Pure fear.
He moved toward me.
“Give me that.”
I pulled my hand back.
“What is this?”
“Sarah.”
“Give it to me.”
His voice had dropped.
Barbara stood up so quickly her chair scraped backward.
“Greg.”
She said.
It was not a question.
It was a warning.
I looked from Greg to Barbara.
Then back to the blinking device.
My heartbeat changed.
“What is this?”
I repeated.
Greg reached for my wrist.
I stepped backward.
“Do not touch me.”
“Sarah, you don’t know what you’re holding.”
“Then explain it.”
“It’s nothing.”
I laughed once.
I could hear how frightened I sounded.
“Nothing has a blinking red light?”
“It’s probably part of the cake.”
Barbara said.
I turned toward her.
“Part of the cake?”
“Yes.”
“Some kind of decorative electronics.”
“There were no electronic decorations.”
I said.
“It was Paw Patrol.”
Greg moved closer again.
“Just give it to me.”
“Why?”
“Because I said so.”
That sentence hit differently now.
Because I said so.
He used it on Leo sometimes.
He had begun using it on me too.
Not often enough that I called it what it was.
Frequently enough that I had stopped noticing.
I closed my fist around the recorder.
Greg lunged.
Not punched.