We bought the video doorbell after the package thefts on our street, back when the worst thing I could imagine arriving at my own front door was a stranger in a hood. Daniel installed it himself one Saturday, balanced on the little stepladder with a screwdriver in his teeth, and I remember thinking how lucky I was to have a husband who handled the small, dull jobs of a marriage without being asked. He set up the app on both our phones. He even labeled the camera "Home" with a tiny house emoji. I never once thought of it as something that would watch us.

For two years it was just background noise. A delivery driver here, a neighbor's cat there, the kids walking to the school bus in their too-big backpacks. I'd glance at the notifications and swipe them away. The camera was Daniel's project, his gadget, and I let it stay that way. That, I think, was the whole trick of it. The thing recording our life was something I had stopped looking at.

What changed was boring. A coat went missing, an expensive one, and I was sure it had been stolen off the porch while I was at work. So one Thursday evening I opened the app and did something I'd never done before. I scrolled the timeline. Not the alerts, the actual continuous bar that runs along the bottom, the one that quietly records the whole day whether anything pings or not. I was looking for a thief. I found something I had no name for yet.

There was a gap. A clean, two-hour stretch in the early afternoon where the footage simply did not exist. Not glitchy, not dark, just gone, like a tooth pulled from a smile. I told myself the Wi-Fi had dropped. These things happen. I closed the app and went to fold laundry.

But it sat in me. The next week, on a different Thursday, I checked again before I'd even decided to. Same gap. Same hours, almost to the minute. The footage ran smooth all morning, then nothing from just after one until just after three, then it picked back up as if nothing had been there at all. Monday was complete. Wednesday was complete. The weekend was complete. Only Thursday had this hole in it, and the hole was always the same size.

I am not a suspicious person. I want that on the record, because of what I did next. I started checking every day, scrolling that little bar like it was a heartbeat monitor, and every Thursday the heart stopped for two hours. A man who forgets to delete things leaves a mess. Daniel left something far more frightening. He left order. The precision was its own confession. You don't carefully remove exactly the same two hours, week after week, unless you know precisely what happens in them.

I didn't accuse him. I couldn't, not with a feeling. So on a Thursday in October I told my office I had a migraine, drove home at noon, parked two streets over, and walked back. I stood behind the hedge at the corner like a woman in a film I never wanted to be in, my own house in front of me, my hands cold even though it wasn't.

At ten past one a small grey car I didn't recognize pulled into our driveway. A woman got out, unhurried, comfortable, the way you only move somewhere you've been many times. She didn't knock. The door opened before she reached it. I saw my husband's arm, the navy sweater I'd bought him, holding it open for her. Then the door closed and our house swallowed them both, and the camera above it kept its faithful, useless watch, recording everything he would erase by evening.

I stood there long after the door shut. The strangest part wasn't the grief, which came later in waves I'm still inside of. It was the clarity. For weeks I'd doubted myself, called it Wi-Fi, called it nothing. The man I married had counted on exactly that, on my trust being so total that I'd explain away the proof he was too careful to leave. He thought deleting the clips made him invisible.

He never understood that the absence of a thing can be louder than the thing itself. I didn't need to see her face on a screen. He'd already told me everything, two silent hours at a time, every Thursday, in the shape of what he chose to take away.