The date stamp on the bottom right read Tuesday morning, just ten hours after I had brought Rowan home from the hospital.

On the screen, I saw myself lying on the sofa in the background, barely visible through the archway.

I looked pale, wrapped in a heavy grey blanket, my eyes closed in exhaustion.

In the foreground, Landon stood by the front door, holding a leather duffel bag.

Patricia was right behind him, wearing her cream-colored trench coat and holding her designer purse.

“Did you get the spare set?” Patricia’s voice came through the small tablet speaker, clear and sharp.

Landon held up my keyring, the silver metal jingling in his palm.

“Got them,” Landon said on the tape. “And her cell phone is on the kitchen island.”

“Good,” Patricia said, her face twisting into a cold smile. “She needs to learn that she cannot hold you hostage with a crying baby.”

“She is just dramatic,” Landon replied, tossing the keys into his pocket. “She will sleep it off and realize she has to pull her own weight.”