4.3.25 - The Book Keepers Dilemma pt 12

Parable 12: The Mother That Wouldn’t Look

Father began cataloging again.

He created a spreadsheet titled “ANOMALIES.”

Tab 1: Baby timeline. Tab 2: Inconsistencies in Mother's behavior. Tab 3: Physical objects that “shouldn’t be here.”

He added rows every night. Columns of uncertainty. Cells filled with guesses and regrets. Version theory gave him language. But no answers.

One morning, he asked Mother what the baby’s first word had been.

She answered too quickly: “Window.”

“That’s not what you said last time.”

She didn’t pause. “That’s what it always was.”

The next day, she swapped out the high chair for a booster seat.

“She’s old enough now,” she said.

“She’s not even one,” he replied.

Mother blinked. “Of course she is. We already had her birthday. You made a video.”

He didn’t remember making a video.

But that night, there it was on his phone. A file named VID_01realfinal.MP4. The baby smashing cake. Everyone singing.

Only—

He wasn’t in the frame.

His voice never heard.

Just clapping from somewhere behind the camera.

Later that week, he asked if she remembered the NICU.

Mother flinched. “Why would you bring that up?”

“You said she was never in the NICU.”

“I never said that.”

“Yes. You did. Three weeks ago.”

“I think you’re projecting,” she said, carefully. “You’ve been under a lot of stress.”

He sat the twins down. Showed them the baby photo album.

“Do you remember this toy?” he asked, pointing to the giraffe.

They shook their heads.

“That’s not hers,” one of them said. “That’s yours.”

“What?”

“You had that when you were little. You told us.”

He had no memory of it.

One night, he woke to the sound of typing.

Not keyboard typing—analog typing. Rhythmic. Mechanical.

He followed it into the living room.

Mother sat at the table, hunched over a typewriter he didn’t recognize.

She was wearing headphones.

He stepped closer.

The paper read:

“He is beginning to notice too much. We recommend a softening.”

“He must not become recursive. Suggest external stimuli: sibling injury, financial stress, mild illness.”

“Do not confront him directly. Observe only.”

He reached out.

She turned before he touched her.

“I was writing a story,” she said, too evenly.

“There was a fire,” he whispered.

She looked through him.

“There’s always a fire.”

He moved into the guest room.

Not officially. Just a few nights.

He told her he needed space to study. She didn’t argue.

The baby began calling for him less.

The twins didn’t ask where he went at night.

He heard laughter from the living room sometimes. It never felt like it was about him.

One morning, he opened his email and found a message from himself.

From: past_version4.1@gov.stablearchive Subject: Integration Reminder

“You are loved. You are safe. You were never in the NICU. She was born with clear lungs and strong vocal cords. You made her laugh before she opened her eyes. You chose this version.”

He read it four times.

Then deleted it.

Then emptied the trash.

That night, the baby looked at him from her crib.

“Are you still trying to prove it?” she asked.

He nodded.

She smiled.

“You already lost the vote.”