Discovering the hidden camera tucked beneath my bathtub was terrifying, but the realization that my son had placed it there was even more distressing. However, his tearful explanation unveiled a mission to rekindle a part of me I thought was long gone.
The jigsaw puzzle sprawled across our kitchen table had remained untouched for weeks, a worrying sign. My son, Drake, and I used to spend hours working on them together, but everything had changed.
These days, he hurried to his room after school, shutting the door behind him and coming home later than usual.
As I stirred the pasta sauce, I glanced at my phone: 6:45 p.m.—two hours late, just like the day before. Through the window, I watched our neighbors walk their dogs, laughing and chatting together.
Our home once thrummed with that kind of energy; now, it felt as though Drake and I were living in separate worlds, connected only by quick hellos and leftover dinners. Was this just a phase all pre-teens went through?
A few moments later, the front door creaked open.
“Hey, Mom,” Drake called as he tossed his backpack onto the floor.
“Kitchen,” I replied cheerfully. “Dinner’s almost ready.”
He peeked around the corner, his messy hair obscured by a backward baseball cap. For a brief moment, something in his eyes gave me hope that my boy was still in there, even if just for a second.
But as I met his gaze, he quickly looked down, and I could sense something was amiss. He seemed older than his years, burdened.
“Sorry I’m late. Chess club ran long.”
“Chess club?” I raised an eyebrow. “Yesterday it was math tutoring, and Tuesday was yearbook committee.”
“Oh, right. I’m doing all those now,” he mumbled, shuffling his feet. “Can I eat in my room? I’ve got tons of homework.”
I gripped the wooden spoon tightly, accidentally splattering sauce onto the stovetop. Enough was enough. “Drake, what’s really going on?” I asked, placing my hand on my hip.
“Nothing! I told you, just busy with school stuff,” he insisted, avoiding my gaze as he grabbed a plate, scooped up some pasta, and vanished before I could press further.
Sighing, I wondered for the millionth time whether I should intervene. Perhaps I wouldn’t receive an answer from above, but I could try to uncover the truth myself.
Peeking down the hallway, I noticed his door was shut, but he had left his backpack in the living room. It was my chance.
Inside, crumpled between textbooks, I discovered a piece of paper with an unfamiliar address scrawled across it: “1247 Maple Street. Don’t be late. This is it.”
Panic washed over me. What was happening?
That night, I spread out Drake’s old baby photos on my bedroom floor, each one a fragment of a life I barely recognized anymore.
There he was at two years old, grinning with spaghetti sauce smeared across his face. That joyful little boy used to tell me everything, but now he barely glanced in my direction.
The parent-teacher conference from last week echoed in my mind.
“Drake seems… distracted lately,” Mrs. Peterson said, sliding a failed math test across her desk. “He’s been dozing off in class and doodling in his notebook instead of taking notes.”
How could he be struggling with grades while attending math tutoring? Should I consider pulling him from the other clubs?
Sleep eluded me, so I decided to take a shower.
The bathroom was my sanctuary, the one place where I could relax and belt out old songs without fear of judgment. Tonight, I chose to sing “Sweet Child O’ Mine.”
As the steam enveloped me, I reminisced about my dreams of performing on stage.
“Where do we go now?” I sang, letting my voice rise like it used to during coffee shop open mics, when my aspirations felt limitless.
Sadly, those dreams faded the moment Tom, Drake’s father and my ex-husband, left for his new life in Seattle.
But I couldn’t dwell on the past right now; the present mattered more. After finishing my shower and drying off, I felt a tug on my ear and heard a clink on the tiled floor.
My earring! Bending down to retrieve it, I spotted something glinting just beneath the bathtub. There, hidden from view, was an old nanny cam I used when Drake was a baby. And it was ON. My face went pale as I examined its angle; it would only capture my feet. I didn’t understand.
Yet my hands trembled as I took the camera and carefully wrapped myself in a towel, marching straight to Drake’s room. The sound of his furious typing ceased as I pounded on the door.
“Just a minute!” he called out, followed by the sound of drawers opening and shutting. What on earth was he up to?
“Drake, open this door right now!”
Finally, he appeared, his oversized gaming headphones in place. His face went white when he saw me holding the nanny cam.
“Drake, what is this? Why was this hidden in the bathroom?!” I demanded, my anger shifting to worry.
He remained silent, and I swallowed hard, asking, “Have you been… recording me in the bathroom?”
His eyes widened in fear. “Oh no… Mom, you weren’t supposed to find that. IT’S NOT WHAT YOU THINK. I can explain!”
“Then start explaining.” I pushed past him into his room, spotting video editing software on his screen. Panic surged again. What was going on?
But before I could spiral further, Drake slumped onto his bed, his voice barely a whisper. “You weren’t supposed to find out yet.”
“Find out what? That my son is making videos of…” I couldn’t even finish the thought.
“No! Mom, listen,” he implored, tears glistening in his eyes. “Remember when you used to sing at the coffee shop open mics? Before Dad left?”
His question caught me off guard. “What does that have to do with anything?”
“You were so happy then. Now you only sing in the shower when you think no one can hear you.” He wiped his nose with his sleeve. “But you’re still amazing, Mom. I wanted to show you that.”
He reached for his laptop and turned it toward me. His fingers pressed play, and suddenly, a music video unfolded on the screen.
A sunset painted the sky over the city, and streets filled with dreamers came to life. The soundtrack? My voice, clear and powerful, singing “My Way.”
“I met an old man, Mr. Arthur. I’ve been going to his studio after school,” Drake explained. “He’s been teaching me video editing. I wanted to surprise you for your birthday and show you that you shouldn’t give up on your dreams just because…”
“Because your father left?” The words caught in my throat.
“He has all these old instruments, and he lets me practice drums while teaching me about making videos.” Drake’s words rushed out now. “I’ve been doing extra chores for neighbors to afford studio time. Mr. Arthur says I have a good eye for it.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Because you worry about everything now.” His voice cracked. “Ever since Dad left, it’s like you stopped believing in good surprises. I thought if I could finish the video, it would remind you how amazing you still are…”
Tears welled up and fell before I could stop them. All this time, I had worried about what he was hiding, never realizing he was just as concerned about me.
“You could have talked to me,” I said softly, wrapping my arms around him.
“Would you have listened?” He looked up at me, suddenly seeming much older than eleven. “You always say you’re fine, but I hear you crying sometimes. You never sing anymore, except in the shower.”
I pulled him close, feeling his thin shoulders tremble. “I’m sorry, baby. I guess we’ve both been keeping too many things inside.”
We shared a moment of silence before I remembered something. “Oh! Is Mr. Arthur’s studio on 1247 Maple Street?”
“Yes!” Drake replied, though he frowned. “How did you know?”
“In the spirit of honesty…” I began, confessing to rummaging through his backpack. We both burst into laughter, the tension lifting.
The next day, we visited Mr. Arthur’s studio together. He turned out to be a gentle giant with calloused hands and kind eyes, surrounded by dusty guitars and vintage recording equipment.
“Your boy’s got talent,” he told me, showcasing more of Drake’s videos. “And so do you.”
Now that the secrets were out, Drake and I finally finished the jigsaw puzzle together. I even sang outside the shower for the first time in years.
Next week, I’ll be singing at the coffee shop again, and my son will be there, recording every moment. This time, I won’t be afraid of a little camera.
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