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.
