The candy sat untouched on my kitchen counter. Each glance recalled her pale face, the murmured "goodnight." Days passed with stifling normalcy. I wrote, shopped, took out trash. Occasional hallway encounters involved brief nods before swift passage. But the drawer, those papers, festered in my mind like a tumor. Insomnia took hold; I stared at the ceiling at night.
Did she have the right? Did I have the right to confront? Silence meant living under perpetual surveillance. Speaking risked unleashing unfathomable pain. Friday afternoon, I snapped. The limbo was worse than truth. I splashed water on my face, confronting my bloodshot reflection in the mirror. Enough. I walked to her door, hovered my finger over the bell for seconds, then pressed.
Speaking the Name
She opened the door slowly, as if expecting me. "Michael." She looked paler than usual. "Can I come in?" I asked. "We need to talk." Her body stiffened almost imperceptibly. Then she stepped back. "Of course. Come in." I entered the immaculate living room. Snowball was nowhere in sight. She gestured to a chair. "Tea?" "No," I said, meeting her eyes directly. "Sophia, I need to ask you something." Her fingers knotted together. "Yes?" I spoke: "About Lucas Miller." The name struck her like lightning. She gasped sharply, eyes widening, color draining from her face. Her lips parted, soundless.
Admission
"You... how..." she finally whispered, trembling. "I saw," I stated. "In your drawer. My medical file." She closed her eyes, shrinking into the sofa. A long silence. Then, tears began falling silently from her closed lids. Finally, she opened her eyes, hollow. "I'm sorry," she choked out. "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry..." I pressed. "Why? Why do you have those things? Why move here?" She wiped her face, attempting composure, her shoulders slumped.
"Lucas... was my son." Her voice was flat, detached. "After the accident... he changed. He got hold of your records. I don't know how – a hospital contact, inquiries. He read them... over and over. Said he needed to understand the person he hurt." A long pause. "Later... he was gone. Sorting his things... I found the file, clippings... your high school graduation, college pieces, small local news bits." Her eyes met mine, filled with anguish. "I never meant harm. Never. I moved here... because I needed to see you survived. That... you were okay."
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