"And if you have a minute, why don't we go talk about it somewhere only we know?"
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Maya Beaulieu, born and raised in Montreal, has heard the stories about Lance Stroll, the boy who grew up down the street of where she lived. All the reason to stay...
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𝙼𝚊𝚢𝚊'𝚜 𝚙𝚘𝚟
November 26th,Montreal, Canada
I hear the sirens from a little distance, that is normal. If you listen closely enough, you can hear them more often during the day, several times a week.
But it is not often that the sirens are followed by the blue and red lights in your street.
And it is not often that the car, including the siren but not the light, stop when they are in front of your house.
The tears are already in my eyes, my heart is already aching, and I am on the edge of breaking down when I open the door as the knock goes through the wood of my door.
Two police officers standing in front of me, both their faces telling a story that no one wants to tell, and no one wants to hear.
One of them in official police clothes, the other wearing his Sunday-off outfit, a last minute clock in.
Brent opens his mouth, his face showing more regret than when I saw him three days ago.
"Maya, I..." He begins.
"Just tell me who," I interrupt him, my voice is already shaking. "Who of the two?"
Brent nods, but struggles to find the words.
"Is there a possibility we can go inside and talk?" His partner takes over.
I nod, open the door and let them in. We take place at the kitchen table, "Can I offer some coffee?"
"Please, Maya, please sit down."
I bite my lip, the tears are burning in the corners of my eyes. I turn around on my heels and sit down next to Brent, "Who is it?"
"It is your dad, Maya."
Time stops.
I can't even hear the other words leaving Brent's mouth. I can't even feel his hands on mine, or the burning on my cheeks from my tears.
My heart shatters into a million pieces. The pain pierces me like a dagger, cutting through every fiber of my being. It's as if the world around me fades into insignificance.
A strangled sob escapes my quivering lips, and my entire body convulses with anguish. The room seems to spin, my surroundings reduced to a blur of indistinct shapes.
How can this be happening? It feels like a cruel nightmare that refuses to end, an unimaginable reality that I cannot accept.
Each breath feels like a struggle, as if the weight of my shattered heart makes it difficult to draw in air.
"Por favor, no," I clutch my chest, a desperate attempt to not fall completely apart, and to hold it together in front of the two police men. (Please, no)
