Chapter 4 - Recording Memories
The party began at two.
By two-fifteen, the living room was full of guests.
Children from preschool.
Neighbors.
A few relatives from Peter’s side.
My parents.
Joyce and Peter’s father, who had died before Kevin was born, were represented in the room by a framed photo Joyce insisted on placing near the gifts.
“Kevin should know legacy,” she said.
Peter nodded.
I moved the frame to a side table.
Joyce noticed.
Of course she did.
Her smile chilled.
At first, she behaved.
She complimented the balloons with insult hidden under sugar.
“Very colorful. Children do love chaos.”
She told Kevin his shirt was “almost tucked properly.”
She told my mother the cake looked “homemade in a sweet way,” even though it came from a bakery.
Kevin stayed near me or my father.
Joyce noticed that too.
Then came presents.
Kevin sat in his little chair near the wooden table, toy boat already in his lap because he refused to put it down.
He opened books.
A puzzle.
A blue sweater.
A set of bath toys from my parents that made him squeal.
Joyce’s expression tightened with each genuine smile that did not belong to her.
Then she stood.
“I have a special gift.”
Peter looked up from his phone.
“What gift?”
Joyce ignored him.
She retrieved the white box with the gold ribbon from behind the sofa.
I had not seen it on the gift table.
That should have stopped me.
But birthday parties are chaos.
People move things.
Children shout.
Cake icing gets on sleeves.
I was pouring lemonade for a preschool parent when Joyce placed the box on Kevin’s lap.
He looked up at me.
“Can I open Grandma Joyce’s?”
My stomach tightened.
Joyce smiled.
“Go ahead, darling.”
He pulled the ribbon.
Lifted the lid.
The smell came out before anyone saw anything.
Sharp.
Rotten.
Wrong.
Kevin’s face crumpled in confusion.
Joyce gripped the back of his chair and shoved the box toward his face.
“He needs to learn his place.”
I moved.
Now the phone was in my hand.
Now the live stream was exposed.
Now Joyce’s perfect little “lesson” had become evidence.
Peter finally found his voice.
“Helen, give me the phone.”
I looked at him.
“No.”
“It’s my mother’s.”
“It was broadcasting my child.”
Joyce snapped, “It was not broadcasting.”
Rachel, still pale, shook her head.
“Aunt Joyce... it says live.”
Joyce’s mouth opened.
Closed.
Then she recovered enough to lie.
“I must have pressed something by accident.”
Caleb was not in this story.
Maya was not in this room.
But every family seems to have someone holding a phone when cruelty wants applause.
Here, it was Joyce herself.
She had set her smartphone on the table earlier, angled toward Kevin’s chair, telling everyone she was “recording memories.”
Memories.
That was what she called it.
Now notifications multiplied across the screen, unreadable but relentless.
Peter reached again.
This time my father moved.
George stepped between us.
He did not touch Peter.
He did not raise his voice.
He simply stood there, seventy years old, gray shirt, white hair, hands at his sides.
“Don’t.”
Peter froze.
Joyce pointed at him.
“Are you going to let her father threaten you in your own home?”
My mother Irene stood beside Kevin now, one protective arm around him.
“This is Helen’s home,” she said.
Joyce turned on her.
“Of course you’d say that.”
I looked at Peter.
He said nothing.
May you like
Again.
Always.
