She leaves.
Dad is gripping his knees. Mom is standing alone by the microphone, the paper with her speech crumpled in her hand.
I stop the recording.
“That’s two.”
Four relationships cracking in real time. And I still have two files left.
The room is no longer watching me. They’re watching each other.
I look at Kristen. She’s standing behind her tripod, but the red dot is gone. At some point during the first two recordings, she killed the live. But it doesn’t matter. Hundreds of people already watched the first half. The damage is in the cloud now.
Her eyes are wide. She knows what’s coming.
I press play.
Kristen’s voice, slightly slurred from wine, fills the room.
“Derek’s useless. Can’t fix the sink. Can’t get a promotion. I married a man who peaks at 35.”
Mom’s voice in response. “You could have done better.”
Kristen again. “I wish I never said yes at that altar.”
The audio is pristine. Every consonant, every breath.
Dererick is in the second row. He was sitting with his hands clasped between his knees, confused and quiet through everything before this.
Now he goes still. A different kind of still. Not shocked. Still—recognition still—like a sound he always suspected but never heard clearly just came through in high definition.
He stands slowly, doesn’t look at me, doesn’t look at mom or dad or Janette.
He looks at Kristen.
She sees him. Her face collapses.
“Derek. Derek. Wait. That’s not what I—I didn’t mean it like—”
He says nothing. Not a single word.
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