There were only a couple of small things that occasionally nagged at me. Some afternoons, our son seemed unusually drowsy — barely lifting his head when I walked in, even though he’d supposedly woken from his nap an hour before.
“Big day?” I asked Megan once.
“He wore himself out,” she said. “We played outside, then he fought his nap forever.”
Another afternoon, he slept through most of dinner. “Maybe he’s having a growth spurt,” Ryan suggested. That sounded reasonable enough. Toddlers slept. Toddlers had unpredictable days. Toddlers could run circles for an hour and then just collapse, face-down on the carpet. I told myself I was being an anxious mother. Besides, Megan always had an explanation ready.
Then there was the delivery driver.
He’d been bringing packages to our house for months. I didn’t know his name, but I recognized his brown cap, his brisk walk, and the way he always tucked packages neatly against the wall instead of leaving them out in the rain. Every few weeks, he’d set a box down, look directly into our Ring camera, and move his lips. The Ring’s microphone had been broken for months, so I never actually heard what he said. The first time, I figured he’d said something like “package delivered.” The second time, I wondered if he was warning us the box was heavy. By the fourth or fifth time, it had become a running joke between Ryan and me.
“Your silent friend stopped by,” Ryan said one evening.
I held up the latest box. “Maybe he’s been confessing his love this whole time.”
“Then I guess I’ve got competition.”
“We’ll never know until you fix that microphone,” I told him.
