Is That Mom

Part 1 of Chapter 1

Chapter 1:

The Weight of the Past

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Part 1:

Isolation and Emotional Void

Prologue:

In the stillness of dawn, as the first light unfurled over the city, she appeared again. Standing at the edge of the park, her figure cast a shadow long and thin over the dew-soaked grass. He blinked, as he always did, just to be sure. And, like every other morning, she was gone by the time his eyes reopened.

The child inside him insisted it was her, that unmistakable tilt of her head, the quiet way she held herself as if she’d never truly belonged to the world around her. She had been gone for years—lost to a tragedy nobody dared to name, though whispers had lingered like fog over water. Her absence had reshaped the lives she left behind, filling their quietest hours with questions and a strange, haunting ache.

Yet, there she was. Or was she? Each time he saw her, the memories blurred, becoming ghostly images slipping just beyond reach. The scent of lavender, a half-remembered lullaby, the way her laughter used to fill their small kitchen, weaving warmth into the walls. They were fragments of her, scattering each time he tried to piece them together.

He pressed his hands to his face, as if to press the vision back into memory, something real he could hold onto. But already, the world was stirring awake, cars honking distantly, dogs barking, a child crying. And as the day broke, so did the last, fragile thread of her presence.

One question haunted him, no closer to an answer than when he’d first felt her absence all those years ago. Was it truly her, returning as the city held its breath? Or was he chasing ghosts, chasing her memory through every unfamiliar face, every fading dream?

“Mom?” he whispered, his voice dissolving into the morning mist.

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Chapter 1:

Isolation and Emotional Void.

The day began like any other in the small, sleepy town that Ethan called home. The morning sun slipped through the cracks of the curtains, casting narrow slivers of light across the room. It was the kind of light that never fully brightened the space, leaving shadows in the corners—a fitting metaphor for Ethan’s life. At twenty, he was young by most standards, but there was a heaviness in his eyes, a tiredness that spoke of years lived without joy. He lay in bed for a few moments, staring at the ceiling, dreading the monotony of another day. Eventually, he rose, got dressed, and headed downstairs to the kitchen.

The house he lived in was old but well-maintained, a testament to his grandparents’ diligence. Margaret and Walter had lived there for decades, and it was a place filled with memories—some shared, others kept hidden. The wallpaper was faded, the wooden floor creaked underfoot, and the furniture was a mix of old-fashioned pieces that had seen better days. Yet everything was meticulously clean, a sign of Margaret’s relentless need to maintain order.

Ethan found his grandmother in the kitchen, as always, already preparing breakfast. The smell of coffee filled the room, mingling with the scent of freshly baked bread. Margaret greeted him with a warm, if slightly tired, smile. “Morning, Ethan. Did you sleep well?” she asked, her voice soft and gentle.

“Yeah,” he replied, though it was a lie. Sleep was often elusive for Ethan. His nights were plagued by restless dreams, images he couldn’t quite grasp upon waking. He sat down at the table, glancing at the empty chair across from him. Walter would join them soon, but there was always a sense of absence in the room, a space that felt incomplete.