Homemade Footage
The baby monitor glared impassively from its perch atop the chest of drawers, not at her son’s cot, but at the bedroom door. Martha noticed this just as someone else’s laughterfemale, uncomfortably closecackled through the receiver perched on the kitchen windowsill.
At first, she hardly looked up. Her tea had gone tepid, the chamomile smelling more of tap water than flowers. The kettle clicked off with a sigh, the flat so quiet that any odd sound clung to her nerves. Her son had been asleep for an hour. Mark texted at half eight that hed be late at the office. Friday was oozing alongslow as syrupleaving Martha stuck on one thought: the flat looked the same as ever, yet nothing felt quite right.
The static grew louder.
She turned to the windowsill, picked up the receiver in both hands. The plastic casing was faintly warm, the green light rhythmically blinking, undisturbed. Then, through a smudge of white noise: a mans voice. Mark, talking softly. Instantly recognisable. But not from the nursery. Not the corridor. Not anywhere near their child.
He was miles from home.
And he wasnt alone.
Martha nudged the volume downwishful thinking, as if muffling it might change what shed heard. It didnt. The mysterious woman said something, her words lost to a smile. Marks reply was perfectly clear:
Wait. Shes probably in the kitchen now. Thats her tea time.
Marthas thumb missed the button, so she pressed it again with careful deliberation. The volume grew fainter, but the intrusion lingered. It wasnt interference or a technical blip; it was someone distinctly uninvited weaving into their evening, her ordinary tea ritual suddenly foreign.
Cautiously, she looked toward the hallway. From the kitchen, she could see the bedroom door and, beyond its ajar edge, the shadowed nursery. Martha walked there barefoot, the laminate cool beneath her feet, and halted before the chest of drawers.
The camera was unmistakeably turned.
Not to the cot, nor the window, nor the armchair where she sometimes cradled her son. Squarely at the door. Capturing a slice of corridor, half the marital bed. Mark had set up the gadget twelve days ago. Itll be reassuring, he promised. Sams old enough to wake in the night. If youre in the kitchen or the loo, youll know at once. It had sounded sensible at the time. Now, Martha felt her tongue dry at the thought of just how many evenings he may have spent watching not the baby, but her.
Marks voice drifted from the kitchen again, muffled.
Not now, he urged, hushed.
Martha set the receiver back and, as if on autopilot, remembered the old family tablet. It languished in the sideboard between a battered recipe book and a half-empty pack of baby wipes. Mark himself had installed the baby monitor app when the camera arrived: Handy for both of us to check. Hed said so, as if bestowing some modern gift upon the family. He had always liked to lecture in that tone. Families should have nothing to hide. Everything should be transparent in a real family.
Martha retrieved the tablet, powered it on, and sat at the table.
It flickered alive slowly. Her fingers were cold, though the kitchen radiated the stuffy warmth of mid-March, the radiator panting heat beneath the window, the mugs handle warm to the touch. The app loaded lazily; the camera icon blinked, and beneath it, an archive of dates awaited.
Archive.
The word gave her pause, as if shed never seen it before. She tapped.
There were plenty of recordings.
Not just one or two. Six days running. Shorts, longer stretches, night shadows, daytime slivers, sound, movement, the empty nursery, her footsteps in the corridor. Martha opened the first file: her own back in a grey cardigan, hair piled up carelessly, a baby bottle in her hand. She enters the room, smooths the babys duvet, bends over the cot, leaves. Forty seconds worth. The next clip: the kitchen, filmed through the open door. Not the whole room, but enough to seethe camera wasnt watching Sam.
She scrolled further.
There she was. Every clip. Not Sam. Not her sons sleep. Her.
She picked the Wednesday 9:22 pm video. Marks voice floated from the tablet. Distant, as if from someone elses life.
You see? I told you. Right now its tea and her phone again.
The woman laughed.
You spy on your wife through the baby monitor?
Dont be dramatic. I just want to know what goes on.
The kitchen seemed to shrink, the only sound the feathery rustle of a blanket from Sams room. Martha pressed pause. Her thumb buzzed against the smooth glass, as if the tablet had soaked up all her warmth. She sat, still as a statue, staring at the chipped kitchen tilethe one Mark had sworn at last autumn after dropping the saucepan in a foul mood.
She hit play again.
Doesnt it bother you? asked the woman.
I care about what happens at home.
At your home or in her head?
Mark chuckled.
Its the same thing, isnt it?
Martha muted them.
It took a full minute before she moved. Not to weep, not to clutch her head, not to fling the tablet across the roomthough she half-expected herself to do just that, and it seemed as though even the air and the blinking green light were waiting for it. Instead, she simply stood, turned on the tap, and let icy water cascade over her hands. She watched it splash the steel sink, thinking that if she didnt keep her hands busy, shed grip the edge until her nails turned white.
Mark arrived home at nearly eleven.
By then, shed listened to five more recordings, learned the name Harriet, and stumbled on far too many unpleasant truths about herself. Turns out, Mark knew exactly when shed rung her mum to complain about exhaustion. He knew she hadnt napped for over a month, even when Sam slept. He knew how often she peered in on Sam and how long she dawdled in the kitchen after the flat went quiet. What once seemed like empathy now just looked grubby and calculated.
The key turned in the lock. Martha closed the tablet in the sideboard and washed up her cup.
Not asleep? Mark called from the hall.
I was waiting for you.
He entered the kitchen, tall, in a navy shirt with rolled-up sleeves, phone in hand and bags from Tesco in the other. He was greying at the templesonce endearing, shed thought, as though age added trustworthiness. Now, she couldnt see past the phonethe very thing hed used to eavesdrop, to confide in another woman over Marthas supposed routine.
Got yoghurts for Sam, Mark announced. Cottage cheese for you. Yours ran out, didnt it?
Just as usual. Painfully usual. That was the hardest part. Mere hours ago hed been discussing her every movement; now he unloaded bread as if nothing had happened.
Thank you, Martha replied quietly.
He scanned her face.
You look peaky. Headache?
No.
So whats up?
She wiped her already dry hands on a towel, folded it twice, unfolded it again.
Just tired.
Mark nodded. No suspicion. Or if he did, he masked it well. That was one of his talents: to explain away any minor slip, or to fall silent if that served him better. Martha remembered how, a year before, hed campaigned for a joint bank card. So much handier. Everythings in sight. Families should live in the open. It had never occurred to her that his love for honesty only applied when it was her life on show.
She lay awake that night.
Sam coughed and whimpered a couple of times, and every time Martha reached him before she needed to. Mark lay next to her, breathing serenely, sprawled as unconcerned as a cat, as if there were never any reason to stir at three in the morning. In the darkness, Martha combed her mind over recent monthsa question here, a suspiciously correct guess there, his offhand You talked to your mum for ages today, or Didnt see you have lunch, is everything all right? or his near-tender Youre tired, arent you? No one knew that much unless they were told. Or unless they snooped.
By morning she realised: no, she couldnt bring it up straight away.
Too many years with a man whod suck the air from a room with an explanation. Hed start talking, confusing, redirecting, making her out an anxious wife imagining things. She could practically hear his lines already. Youve taken it the wrong way. It isnt even about you. Harriets just a colleague. I was worried about Sam. Youre so worked up right now, youre reading into everything. He was a master at thatwrapping up facts until the problem wasnt the deed but her reaction.
Saturday morning, Mark became uncharacteristically gentle.
Too gentle. Changed Sams nappy first, made the porridge, even washed the bowlsomething hed usually leave in the sink till bedtime. Martha watched as he played on the mat, threw Sams sock in the air, picked the spoon off the tiles, and wondered how a man could so easily be both doting father and detached observer of his own family.
Youre really quiet today, Mark said when they were alone in the kitchen.
Am I usually noisy?
You can be. Not today, though.
Martha poked around in the fridge, fetched Sams yoghurt, shut the door.
Slept badly.
Because of him?
No. Just in general.
He moved closer, set his hand on her shoulder. It used to comfort her once. Now, it sent such a chill down her spine she had to clench her teeth.
Martha, come on. Were all right, you know.
And thatordinary, everyday deceitwas the worst of it. As if lies brewed themselves a mug of tea and wandered round in slippers every morning.
She didnt turn.
Of course.
You wont even look at me.
I am.
No, youre not.
She finally met his gaze. Mark was smiling that same tired smile she used to mistake for patience during their early marriage. Now it radiated something elsecertainty, that the conversation could be held by the handle, never allowed to close shut.
Youve cooked up something in that head of yours? he asked.
No.
Thank heavens.
And off he went, back to Sams room, without noticing the vice in her grip on the edge of the table.
The day crawled. Martha went through the motionsplates, socks, windows, souplike someone treading lightly over a hollow floor, wary anything might collapse. Every object seemed to develop an alternate meaning: the old tablet, the baby monitor, Marks phone.
A bit later, when he popped out for nappies, she dared revisit the archive.
Blue light flickered on the tablet. The kitchen smelled of leftover soup and damp dust. Martha scrolled through file after filenot just hunting for infidelity, which life seemed keen to throw in her facebut searching for the moment things had turned alien. Which day. Which minute.
She found it in Thursdays video.
There, Marks tone changed completelyno jokes now, barely any pretence.
She suspects? Harriet asked.
Not yet.
And if she starts digging?
Let her. Ive got everything.
Everything?
Everything.
There was a pause. Marthas jaw locked.
Youre taking it too far, said Harriet.
Im just planning ahead.
You plan ahead for the child as well?
How else?
Pause.
You even listen to yourself? Harriet asked.
I know Im doing the right thing.
Mark, this isnt about caring anymore.
What is it about, then?
Control.
He snorted.
Sounds dramatic.
It fits.
Martha closed the file.
That was where the line shifted. Up to now, she could stillbarelychalk it up to a fling, a stray conversation, some dim masculine confidence in not being caught. But sober, businesslike talk of control stripped away the flimsiness. Not a mistake. Not a lapse. This was curated, chronicleda new family order.
Mark came home that evening with the same calm face.
He unpacked shopping, sat on the floor with Sam, reading a book about tractors, then interrupted himself
You called your mum today?
It sounded breezy, practically bored. But Martha felt it prick her spine.
No.
Odd. You usually ring on Saturdays.
Slipped my mind.
Hmm.
Page turned, the sound of paper soft but sharp as a pin. The ordinary sentence, the average sound, yet tucked within it was a man counting anothers habits.
At dinner, Mark said little. Martha, less. Sam was the only one actually living Saturday night for real, banging his tiny spoon and scattering crumbs, free of double meanings. When Mark left to rinse Sams face, Martha whipped out the tablet for the latest file.
It was fresh.
Saturday into Sunday night. Apparently, Mark had switched on the app after shed gone to bed. Theres an empty hallway, footsteps, whispers, a car starting, then Harriets voice closer than before.
Do you still think this isnt a bit much?
Yes.
Even if it ends… with you moving out?
Martha froze. Hed said it so casually, as if predicting Tuesdays weather.
If it comes to that, said Mark, Ill have proof that Sams safer with me.
Silence from Harriet.
He pressed on
You heard her. Not sleeping. Snapping. Half the night in the kitchen. Skipping meals. Its all there.
Mark…
What? I have to think about Sam.
Its like youve made up your mind.
I havent. Im just preparing for all options.
That was as far as Martha got. She put the tablet down, hand pressed to her mouth to stifle any sound, although the flat was empty. There it was, the real heart of itnot a random conversation, not a fling, but her entire life documented for future advantage. Not to understand her. For leverage. For the day when hed open that digital folder and say, See, my snooping was justified.
The clock ticked too loudly. Or maybe it just seemed that way.
Martha sat until dawn. Didnt cry. Didnt pace the flat. Didnt text her mum, though her hand hovered over the phone. She just stared at the blank screen, feeling something steady click into place inside her. Not warmth. Not calm. Just something even and unshakable, like shelves filling jar by jar, until truth gathered its own weight.
Sam woke early, demanding his share of the world. Porridge, cup, ball, window, mum, dad. Mark scooped him up, laughing as Sam tugged his shirt. Martha glanced from Mark to Sam and remembered another side of his voicedry, steely, convinced he knew best.
By ten, Sam was back asleep.
And Martha knew she wasnt waiting another day.
The kitchen was awash in pale light. Two mugs on the table; only hers untouched. Mark scrolled through his phone. Martha placed the baby monitor beside his elbow, then the tablet.
He looked up.
Whats all this?
We need to talk.
Now?
Now.
No pleading in her voice. No old softness. Mark heard it. He flipped his phone facedown.
Whats wrong?
Martha sat. The rough edge of the seat braced her better than words could.
One answer. Only one. No speechifying.
Mark managed an easy smile, but his face already twitched with wariness.
Go on, then.
She tapped the tablet.
Why did you aim the camera at me, not at Sam?
He didnt answer at once. That silence was her first real answernot denial, not outrage, not a sharp retort. A pause. Short, but heavy.
What are you on about? he asked eventually.
Martha pressed play.
Familiar static, that female giggle, Marks unmistakable tonesoothing, sure, as if he lived in a parallel universe.
I just want to know what she does all day.
Mark jerked so hard the chair squeaked. He reached for the tablet, but Marthas hand landed there first.
Leave it.
He pulled away.
How did you get this?
From the archive. The one you kindly set up.
His face tried to hold familiar habits, to twist things his way. But the audio continued. Harriet asked about digging. He replied, Ive got everything. She said, Control. He called it a loaded word. Each utterance chipped away at him.
Turn it off, he said.
No.
Martha, turn it off.
No.
He scrubbed his face. Stood. Sat again.
You dont understand the context.
So explain. Briefly.
I was worried about Sam.
Martha tapped onuntil the line about more stable hands came up.
Mark closed his eyes.
Just for a second, but she caught it.
One more time. Her voice was low. Why were you spying on me?
I wasnt spying.
Then whats this?
I was keeping on top of things at home.
With another woman?
His jaw ticked.
Harriets notHarriets nothing to do with it.
Please. Shes got everything to do with it.
Youre muddling everything together.
No. Ive separated it. Harriets one thing. The cameras another. Your chats about Sam, a third. And on every point, you lied.
Mark stood, paced to the windowbut didnt open it. His reflection stared back, looking not older, but emptier somehow.
Youre so worked upits hard to talk.
Say it, then.
He turned.
Youre impossible to reason with.
And Harriet? Bit easier, is she?
Whats that got to do with anything?
The fact that you discussed my tea, my sleep, my calls, my exhaustion, and our sonalready thinking which of us would be easier to prove fit.
Hes my son, too.
Then why did you collect evidence, not help?
At that, for the first time, he was genuinely flustered. Not over Harriets name, not even the recordingsover the word evidence. Because it was right. No drama. No embroidery. No wriggling out.
You cant imagine how hard its been doing it all by myself, Mark muttered.
Martha stared at him.
By yourself?
He looked away.
I work. I provide. I come home and youre not coping.
So you set a camera on me?
Dont be melodramatic.
Even now?
I just wanted to know what was going on.
You wanted to control what was going on.
He gave a brittle laugh.
You do love your words. Did your mum tell you what to say?
Martha shook her head.
No. You did. You recorded it.
Silence pooled in the kitchen. From the nursery came the gentle sound of Sam rolling and sighing. Tightness squeezed Marthas chest. Baby, sleeping. Flat, standing. Tea, cold. Yet something seismic was unfolding, unthinkable three days ago.
Youll leave today, she said.
Mark stared.
What?
Today.
Have you lost your mind?
No.
This is my home too!
True. But today, you go.
Based on what?
That Im done living with someone who eavesdropped on my life and told Harriet our sons better off with someone else.
He smacked the table. Not hard, but her mug trembled.
Stop talking nonsense.
Martha didnt blink.
You said enough. Im done.
And what next? Off to your mums?
Ill disable the camera. Youll pack your things.
You cant just decide unilaterally.
I am now.
He gazed at her foreveror so it felt. And in those seconds, Martha saw not fury or regret, but annoyancea man irritated his plan had crumbled, that someone else put the cards down first. That, perhaps, was the true end.
Mark looked away first.
All right, he said. Cool off. Well talk properly tonight.
No. Now.
Im not going anywhere without Sam.
Youll go alone.
Dont boss me around.
Pack your things, Mark.
He looked about to object, but from the nursery came a soft, sleepy voice. Sam had woken. Martha stood at once. Mark, out of habit, did too, but she raised a hand to stop him.
Dont. Ill go.
She went to her son, gathered him close, breathed in his familiar scent of cream and sleep and simplicity. He burrowed his nose into her neckenough to keep her together for now. Martha swayed beside the cot, watching the unblinking green eye of the baby monitor back in the kitchen. How often had he watched her like this? How often had he listened in on the homey noise meant for just the three of them?
By midday, Mark had packed a bag.
Not his life, evidentlyhe lacked either resolve or imagination. A few shirts, charger, razor, documents. Before leaving, he tried one more shot at reclaiming the narrative.
Youre breaking up the family over one conversation, he said.
Martha, cradling Sam, just watched him.
One conversation, echoed Mark, as if repetition would strengthen him, and you wont even try to understand.
Ive understood plenty.
No, not everything.
Enough. Please.
Whatll you tell people?
The truth.
He sneered at the corner of his mouth.
What truth? That your husband put in a baby monitor?
Yes.
And?
And the camera wasnt on the baby.
Mark gripped his bag tighter.
Youll regret acting like this.
Perhaps. But not for hearing what I did.
That, at last, sealed his lips.
The door shut without dramano slamming, no grand finale. Just the lock clicking over, the muted groan of the lift, someone coughing on the landing, and then the flat felt like a flat again. Except everything inside was slightly rearrangedthe same cups, the same table, but the invisible lines between things had shifted.
Martha did next to nothing for the rest of the day.
She fed Sam, changed him into socks with a grey stripe, packed up some of his bits, called her mum, and simply said: Marks staying elsewhere for a bit. Her mum went silent for a moment, then asked if shed come by that evening. Martha replied, maybeby nightfall. She offered no more details. Explanations take time. First, you have to get through the hushone room to the next, not forgetting to turn the kettle off.
By evening, she returned to the nursery.
The room looked nearly unchanged. A blue sleepsuit air-drying. Grey blanket on the chair. The camera on the chest of drawersblack casing, tiny lens, lifeless green light. Martha approached, stared at it, as if it were the lingering imprint of someone elses stare.
She picked it up.
Her hands were steady. That surprised her most. After two days of ice-cold hands, sleepless hours, and silent internal effort, she realised her nerves were too tired to shake. Martha turned the camera over, found the plug, and pulled it from the socket.
The green light winked off.
And the nursery settled into a rare stillnessthe sort found only where no one is listening in any more.
