The Recorder
I didn’t want to be “that parent.”
The paranoid one.
The one who accuses the school without proof.
But I also wasn’t going to keep guessing while my daughter cried every single day.
So I grabbed a small digital recorder from my junk drawer.
I’d used it years ago for interviews when I helped with our neighborhood newsletter.
It still worked.
That night, I tested it twice.
Then the next morning, while Lily was brushing her teeth, I slipped it into the front pocket of her backpack.
Behind tissues and hand sanitizer.
Small enough that she wouldn’t notice.
All day, I felt sick.
Guilty.
But also determined.
When she got home, I told her to go watch cartoons.
I pulled the recorder out, locked myself in the bedroom, and hit play.
At first it was just classroom noise.
Pencils scratching.
Chairs shifting.
Paper crinkling.
Normal.
Comforting, almost.
I exhaled.
Maybe I’d been wrong.
Then I heard a woman’s voice.
Sharp. Impatient. Cold.
“Lily, stop talking and look at your paper.”
I paused the recording.
My hand was already shaking.
That voice wasn’t warm.
It wasn’t patient.
It had an edge that made my stomach twist.
I pressed play again.
Lily’s voice came next — small and nervous.
“I—I wasn’t talking. I was just helping Ella—”
The woman snapped back instantly.
“Don’t argue with me!”
Then she said something that made my lungs freeze.
“You’re always making excuses… just like your mother.”
My heart stopped.
Because my name is Emma.
And that wasn’t a random insult.
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