The kitchen clock ticked too slow, each sound amplifying my unease as I sat rigid at the table. My arms were crossed tight, foot bouncing on the floor, the smell of baking lasagna ignored—I couldn’t shake my dread about my daughter’s sleepover.
Across the room, my husband, Greg, diced onions, calm as ever, humming a tune. I stood abruptly, chair scraping, and said, “I’m getting her.” He chuckled, “It’s just a night at Jen’s—chill out.”
I clutched my keys, fingers trembling. “Jen’s hated me since high school,” I shot back. Greg set his knife down, touching my shoulder, urging me to trust our girl, Sophie, to handle herself.
He might’ve been right—Sophie was growing up. I sighed, trying to relax, when my phone rang. Her tiny voice shook: “Mom, I saw a camera in here.” My stomach dropped, and I barked, “I’m on my way.”
I hammered Jen’s door, heart pounding, every second dragging as I pictured Sophie scared. Jen answered, all fake smiles, but I shoved by, yelling for Sophie, who crashed into me, clinging tight as I hugged her back.
Her ponytail smelled like lavender, calming me as I checked her wide eyes—she was rattled but safe. I spun to Jen, voice hard, “She saw a camera.” Jen waved it off, saying it was for protection, not recording.
“Why’d she see a light then?” I demanded, fists clenched. Jen paused, then huffed she’d erase it, acting annoyed. I took Sophie’s hand and marched out, done with that house forever.
The drive home was heavy, silent except for the car’s hum. Greg mumbled, “You’re blowing this up,” but I fired back, “A camera was on our kid!” He suggested Jen meant no harm, but I scoffed—he always defended her.
Next morning, I nursed cold tea, haunted by Sophie’s fear and Jen’s smirk. Greg grabbed his coat, claiming a last-minute errand, but his dodgy look set me off. I dug into his laptop the moment he left.
A note from Jen popped up: “Checked the footage—something about Sophie and your wife. Come over.” My pulse raced. I sped to Jen’s, slamming her door open, finding Greg glued to a video of Sophie saying she liked it there better.
It stung, but then Jen’s daughter, Mia, spoke up, hugging a doll. “Mom made us play a game—I dared Sophie to say it.” Jen snapped at her to leave, but Greg turned, furious, “You set them up?”
Jen exploded, “You deserve better than her!” Her old grudge flared. Greg shut the laptop hard, looked at me, and said, “We’re out.” We walked away, leaving her fuming.
The ride back was quiet, tension fading. Greg said, “I messed up,” and I grabbed his hand, replying, “So did I.” With Sophie home and Greg with me, trust felt solid again.
