“I’m sorry,” I said.
He didn’t say anything.
“I’m so sorry, Brandon,” I said. “I didn’t think they’d be that bad. They were so calm when I left. I didn’t mean to ruin your night.”
“Well, you did.”
“I’m sorry. I won’t do it again.”
“You always say that.”
“I mean it this time,” I said. “I’ll shower in the morning. Before you go to work. Or during naps. I’m sorry.”
I was absorbing all of it.
Every word. Every sigh. Every clenched jaw.
I took it all in and turned it into guilt. The way I always do.
I hustled the kids off to bed.
Theo first. He screamed when I put him in the crib. I found a different pacifier. Not the green one. The blue one he hates. He spit it out twice. I rocked him for twenty minutes until he gave up.
The twins next. Matching beds. Matching duck pajamas. I read Goodnight Moon twice. They whispered to each other in their secret language. I sang the song I always sing. They held hands across the gap between their beds and fell asleep.
Mabel last.
She was quiet. Quieter than usual.
I tucked her in. Her pink unicorn sheets. Clover tucked under her arm.
She looked up at me.
“Mommy,” she said. “Did you get clean?”
“I did, baby.”
“All the way clean?”
“All the way clean.”
She was quiet for a moment.
“Good,” she said.
She looked at the door. Toward the hallway. Toward the living room. Where Brandon was.
“Is Daddy mad?” she whispered.
I didn’t know what to say.
“Daddy’s just tired,” I said. “He had a long day at work.”
Mabel looked at me for a long time.
The way she does. With her head tilted. Like a little bird.
“Okay,” she said.
She closed her eyes.
I felt intensely guilty.
For daring to need basic hygiene.
For needing nineteen minutes.
For being a person with a body that gets dirty.
By nine-thirty, Brandon had gone to bed.
Angry. He didn’t say goodnight. He flipped off the hallway light while I was still in it.
I heard the bedroom door close. Harder than it needed to.
And then it was just me.
In the kitchen. In the silent house.
With a sink full of dishes.
I washed them.
The mac and cheese pot. Four plates. Four sippy cups. Brandon’s sandwich plate, which he’d left on the arm of the recliner. Twelve bottles. The nipples. The little rings.
I wiped the counters. I swept the floor. I picked up the toys in the living room. I folded the laundry that had been sitting in the dryer since two o’clock.
I was standing at the sink, feeling terrible about ruining his night, when I remembered the pacifier.
Theo’s green one.
The good one.
He’d had it when I left for the shower. I remembered seeing it in his mouth. I remembered thinking, Good. He’s got the green one. He’ll be calm.
When I got back, it was gone.
I’d already looked. Under the couch. Under the playpen. Everywhere.
Nothing.
And at two in the morning, when Theo woke up screaming because of his molar, he’d want the green one.
And if I didn’t have it, he’d scream for an hour.
And Brandon would wake up.
And he’d be angry again.
I thought, I’ll just check the camera.
The security app.
Wide-angle view of the whole living room. I’d scroll back to seven o’clock. I’d find the moment the pacifier fell. I’d zoom in. I’d see where it rolled.
That’s all.
That’s all I was looking for.
I dried my hands.
I picked up my phone.
I opened the app.
I tapped Living Room.
I scrolled back to 7:00 PM.
I pressed play.
7:00 PM.
The living room. From above. Wide-angle. A little fish-eyed at the edges.
Me, walking out of the frame toward the hallway. Fast. Almost running.
Brandon in his recliner. Feet up. Phone in hand. AirPods in.
Theo in the playpen. Green pacifier in his mouth. Stacking cup in his hands.
The twins on the rug. On their bibbas. Holding hands.
Mabel on the couch. Clover in her lap.
Bluey on the TV.
7:01 PM.
Nothing.
Everybody exactly the same.
7:02 PM.
Nothing.
7:03 PM.
Theo drops his stacking cup. It rolls to the edge of the playpen.
He looks at it.
He doesn’t cry.
He picks up a different toy. A soft block.
7:04 PM.
Brandon shifts in his recliner. He holds his phone sideways now. Landscape. His thumbs are moving fast.
He’s playing a game.
I zoom in.
I can’t see the screen. But I can see the light flickering on his face. Bright. Colorful. The kind of flicker that comes from a video game.
7:05 PM.
Nothing.
7:06 PM.
Theo takes the green pacifier out of his mouth.
He looks at it.
He throws it.
It flies over the side of the playpen. It bounces on the rug. It rolls under the edge of the couch.
There it was.
The pacifier.
Under the couch. On the left side. By the leg.
I’d looked under the right side.
I should have stopped there.
I found what I was looking for.
I should have closed the app and gone to the living room and gotten the pacifier and gone to bed.
I didn’t stop.
7:07 PM.
Theo starts to fuss.
Not crying. Just fussing. A little whine. Reaching his arms over the side of the playpen. Toward where the pacifier went.
Mm. Mm. Mm.
Brandon doesn’t look up.
Mabel looks up.
On the couch. She puts down Clover. She looks at Theo.
She looks at Brandon.
She looks back at Theo.
She gets off the couch.
She walks over to the playpen.
She looks over the side at her baby brother.
“Theo,” she says.
The camera has audio. Faint. Tinny. But I can hear her.
“Theo, what’s wrong? Did you lose your binky?”
Theo reaches for her.
Mm. Mm.
Mabel looks around the playpen. She looks on the rug. She doesn’t see the pacifier under the couch.
She looks at Brandon.
“Daddy,” she says.
Brandon doesn’t move. AirPods in. Thumbs moving.
“Daddy,” Mabel says again. Louder. “Theo lost his binky.”
Nothing.
Mabel walks over to the recliner.
She stands next to it. Next to Brandon’s arm.
She touches his arm.
“Daddy,” she says. “Theo lost his binky. He’s sad.”
Brandon pulls one AirPod out.
He doesn’t look at her.
He keeps looking at his phone.
“Go sit down, Mabes,” he says.
