I Almost Hurt Arthur—Until That Afternoon's Security Footage Told Me Otherwise.-6
Battle of the Lullaby
Arthur fussed, face scrunched, limbs flailing. I lifted him, pacing the cramped nursery, humming a clumsy, improvised tune. It barely helped. Marianne appeared in the doorway, offering an aged rattle. "Try this?" I ignored it. She lingered. Arthur screamed louder. I shifted him, stubbornly humming, back turned. Seconds ticked. Footsteps approached. She circled to face me, singing directly over Arthur’s cries—a gentle, rhythmic old melody. Miraculously, his wails subsided into soft hiccups, his head tilting towards her voice. My arms froze mid-rock. Her hand came to rest softly on my back, as if soothing Arthur too: "Relax, dear. You’re wound too tight." I jerked away as if burned. Her warmth vanished, replaced by frozen surprise.
The Dinner Spoon
Dinner passed in heavy silence. Cutlery scraped lightly. Toby mentioned work. No response. My fork stabbed mashed potato. Marianne chewed. Then, she reached for Arthur’s bowl, scraping leftover peas and carrots from our plates, mashing them with a spoon. "I’ll feed him later." Without looking up. My fork clattered down. Toby glanced over. "*I’ll* feed him," I stated. Marianne paused. Looked at me. "You need rest." "I am his *mother*." Her eyes locked on mine. She set down the spoon. Clink. Rose. The chair legs grated loudly. She left. Toby inhaled sharply. Said nothing.
The Alarm Screams
Late night. A piercing shriek jolted me awake. Arthur’s smoke alarm. Toby stirred. We rushed out. The corridor reeked of burning plastic. Arthur’s door stood open, light blazing. Marianne was already inside, lifting him from his crib. He wailed. A bottle warmer sat on the side table, its power cord dangling. Near the plug, a charred patch. Toby inspected it. "What happened?" Marianne cradled Arthur. "Short circuit," she replied, glancing at the scorch mark before turning back to Arthur, patting his back. I clung to the doorframe, legs trembling beneath me. The acrid smell lingered. The alarm screamed. Arthur wept openly. My knuckles whitened against the wood.
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Arthur fussed, face scrunched, limbs flailing. I lifted him, pacing the cramped nursery, humming a clumsy, improvised tune. It barely helped. Marianne appeared in the doorway, offering an aged rattle. "Try this?" I ignored it. She lingered. Arthur screamed louder. I shifted him, stubbornly humming, back turned. Seconds ticked. Footsteps approached. She circled to face me, singing directly over Arthur’s cries—a gentle, rhythmic old melody. Miraculously, his wails subsided into soft hiccups, his head tilting towards her voice. My arms froze mid-rock. Her hand came to rest softly on my back, as if soothing Arthur too: "Relax, dear. You’re wound too tight." I jerked away as if burned. Her warmth vanished, replaced by frozen surprise.
The Dinner Spoon
Dinner passed in heavy silence. Cutlery scraped lightly. Toby mentioned work. No response. My fork stabbed mashed potato. Marianne chewed. Then, she reached for Arthur’s bowl, scraping leftover peas and carrots from our plates, mashing them with a spoon. "I’ll feed him later." Without looking up. My fork clattered down. Toby glanced over. "*I’ll* feed him," I stated. Marianne paused. Looked at me. "You need rest." "I am his *mother*." Her eyes locked on mine. She set down the spoon. Clink. Rose. The chair legs grated loudly. She left. Toby inhaled sharply. Said nothing.
The Alarm Screams
Late night. A piercing shriek jolted me awake. Arthur’s smoke alarm. Toby stirred. We rushed out. The corridor reeked of burning plastic. Arthur’s door stood open, light blazing. Marianne was already inside, lifting him from his crib. He wailed. A bottle warmer sat on the side table, its power cord dangling. Near the plug, a charred patch. Toby inspected it. "What happened?" Marianne cradled Arthur. "Short circuit," she replied, glancing at the scorch mark before turning back to Arthur, patting his back. I clung to the doorframe, legs trembling beneath me. The acrid smell lingered. The alarm screamed. Arthur wept openly. My knuckles whitened against the wood.
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