Discovering the hidden camera beneath my bathtub was frightening enough, but learning that my son was behind it left me dumbfounded. His tearful explanation, however, revealed a touching mission to revive something within me that I had long thought lost.
For weeks, the unfinished jigsaw puzzle on our kitchen table worried me. My son, Drake, and I previously enjoyed doing puzzles together, but recently, everything seemed different.
Nowadays, he would skip directly to his room after school and close the door behind him, often coming home later than normal.
I checked the time again as I stirred the pasta sauce: 6:45 p.m. – two hours late, just like yesterday. Watching our neighbors laugh and walk their dogs through the kitchen window reminded me of our family’s once bustling energy. Now, Drake and I inhabited two separate worlds, only connected by brief greetings and leftover meals. Is this typical for pre-teens?
The front door eventually creaked open.
“Hey, Mom,” Drake called from the hallway before dropping his backpack with a thud.
“In the kitchen,” I replied, cheerfully. “Dinner’s almost ready.”
He peeked into the kitchen, his eyes momentarily restoring the vision of my sweet boy, although they quickly shifted to the floor. I sensed something was off but couldn’t pinpoint how to approach it.
“Sorry I’m late. Chess club took longer than expected,” he said.
“Chess club? Yesterday, you mentioned math tutoring. And Tuesday was the yearbook committee,” I noted, raising my eyebrows.
“Yes, I’m in those too.” He shuffled his feet. “Can I eat in my room? Loads of homework.”
Exasperated, I tightened my grip on the spoon. “Drake, what’s really happening?” I asked, putting a hand on my hip for emphasis.
“Nothing! Just busy with school stuff.” Without meeting my gaze, he hurriedly served himself pasta and vanished before I could push further.
Frustrated, I contemplated if I should intervene. I couldn’t get divine guidance, but maybe I could uncover some truths myself.
I checked the house and noticed his door was typically shut, except for his backpack left in the living room.
Inside the backpack, among scrunched textbooks, was a note with an unfamiliar address: “1247 Maple Street. Don’t be late. This is it.”
What could this all mean? I pondered, alarmed.
***
That night, emotions swirled as I sorted through Drake’s baby pictures, scattered across my room like fragments of a past era. There he was as a two-year-old, joyfully messy with spaghetti sauce all over him. That joyful little boy used to confide in me everything, but now it was like he barely acknowledged me.
Reflecting on the recent parent-teacher conference added to my distress.
“Drake seems distracted,” Mrs. Peterson remarked, revealing his failed math test. “He’s not engaged in lessons and keeps scribbling unrelated stuff.”
If he struggled this much in math despite tutoring, should I let him continue all these clubs?
Regardless, knowing sleep would elude me, I decided to take a shower.
The bathroom was my escape – my oasis where I sang freely, tonight’s choice being “Sweet Child O’ Mine.” Steamed enveloped me, reviving cherished dreams of performing on stage.
“Where do we go now?” I sang, recalling the coffee shop gigs pre-dating life’s unforgiving shifts.
When Tom—Drake’s father—left us for Seattle, it snuffed out those dreams. But now wasn’t the time to dwell on past regrets. I towel-dried my hair, and suddenly, an earring slipped out, dropping with a clink on the tiles.
Bending to retrieve it, something else grabbed my attention—a flashing light from beneath the tub.
To my shock, an old nanny cam, from Drake’s baby days, blinked right back at me, still active. I grew pale thinking it recorded anything illicit. It had only captured my feet though, which left me perplexed.
Nonetheless, trembling, I wrapped up in my towel and stormed to Drake’s room. His furious keyboard clacking stopped as I knocked loudly.
“Just a minute!” he shouted, rushing around. What was happening?
“Open this door now, Drake!”
Eventually, the door opened, revealing Drake, headset still perched, who visibly blanched as I showed him the nanny cam.
Confronting him ignited worry—had he recorded personal bathroom moments?
His terror grew, “No, Mom, wait! IT’S NOT WHAT YOU THINK. I can explain!”
“Then start explaining,” I insisted, barging in to examine his computer, revealing video editing work. What was he doing?
His resolve crumbled. “You weren’t meant to find out yet.”
“Find out what? That you made bathroom videos?” My voice faltered.
“No, please listen.” Tears pooled in his eyes. “Remember your open mic songs before Dad left?”
I caught my breath. What relevance did that have?
“You were happy, performing. Now, you only sing when you think no one hears,” he continued, frustrated. “But you’re still incredible, Mom. I wanted to show you.”
On his laptop, a vibrant scene emerged: a song resonating from me over a vivid montage illustrating dreams across the city. Impressed, I gasped—my voice created magic once more.
“I met someone named Mr. Arthur who taught me video editing,” Drake disclosed. “This was your birthday surprise—to remind you of your dreams despite everything…”
“Your dad’s departure?” I barely managed to voice it.
“He let me practice while teaching videos.” Drake spoke rapidly, “I paid for lessons doing chores. Mr. Arthur believes I have talent.”
“Why keep it secret?” I asked.
“Because you seem anxious now, less trusting of surprises.” His voice faltered again. “I thought the completed video would highlight your talents.”
The weight of his words broke me. As much as I worried, I hadn’t considered his concern for me too.
“You should’ve talked to me,” I gently scolded, embracing him.
“Would you have listened?” He questioned thoughtfully. “I hear you crying and see the silence when you’re lonely.”
Holding him close, I realized we’d both been trapped in solitude.
Remembering something else, I asked, “Is Mr. Arthur’s studio on 1247 Maple Street?”
“Yes! How do you know?” His brow furrowed in confusion.
“In honesty, I rifled through your backpack,” I revealed, and we shared a laugh.
*** Next day, we visited Mr. Arthur together. He turned out to be a gentle giant, weathered with kind eyes surrounded by music artifacts.
“Your son has potential,” he praised, “and so do you.”
Finally unburdened, Drake and I completed the jigsaw, and I sang beyond the bathroom wall for the first time.
Next week, I’ll return to the coffee shop stage. My son will film it all, ready to eternalize moments now free from frightful thoughts about hidden cameras.
This narrative, while inspired by genuine events and characters, has been crafted as a fictional account to enhance creativity. Names and details have been altered for privacy, with no direct correlation to actual events or individuals intended.
