Is That Mom

Part 3 of Chapter 1

Chapter 1:

The Weight of the Past

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Part 3:

The Mystery of His Mother

The attic was Ethan's sanctuary, a place where time seemed to stand still. Dust hung in the air, catching the thin beams of sunlight that filtered through the cracks in the old wooden beams. It was quiet up there, a silence so profound that it felt as if the rest of the world had been muted. For years, Ethan had avoided this room, afraid of what he might find. But lately, it had become a refuge, a place where he could search for pieces of a past that seemed determined to elude him.

He climbed the narrow staircase, each creaking step echoing through the empty house. At the top, he hesitated for a moment, hand resting on the brass doorknob. He could feel his heart pounding, a dull, rhythmic thud that matched the steady ticking of the clock downstairs. Taking a deep breath, he pushed the door open and stepped inside.

The attic was cluttered with boxes, old furniture, and forgotten relics from decades past. There were trunks covered in cobwebs, stacks of yellowed newspapers, and shelves filled with books that no one had read in years. It was as if the room was a graveyard for the things that no longer had a place in the present, a collection of memories that had been left to gather dust.

Ethan made his way to the far corner, where a large wooden chest sat beneath a small, round window. The chest was heavy and worn, the wood darkened with age, and he had always been curious about its contents. He had opened it once, years ago, but he hadn’t understood the significance of what he found. Now, he hoped it might hold some answers, some clue that would help him piece together the story of his mother.

He lifted the lid, the hinges groaning in protest, and peered inside. There were old clothes, musty and faded, folded neatly on top. He set them aside, his fingers trembling slightly as he searched through the layers. Underneath the clothes, he found a small box made of polished cedar, its surface smooth and cool to the touch. He opened it, revealing a collection of items that seemed, at first glance, to be ordinary—a scarf, a keychain, a few loose coins. But as he examined them more closely, he realized that each one was a fragment of his mother's life.

The scarf was delicate, a deep blue with tiny white flowers embroidered along the edges. Ethan remembered seeing it once, a long time ago, in a photograph that his grandmother kept hidden away. He had asked about it, but Margaret had quickly changed the subject, saying it wasn’t important. Now, as he held the scarf in his hands, he wondered if it had been his mother’s favorite, if she had worn it often. It felt like a tangible connection to a woman he had never truly known, a small piece of her that had somehow survived the years of silence.

Beneath the scarf, there was a photograph. Ethan picked it up carefully, wiping the dust from the glass. It was an old black-and-white image, slightly blurred around the edges, showing a woman standing by a river. Her hair was loose, blowing softly in the breeze, and she was smiling at the camera, her eyes bright and full of life. But the most striking thing was that her face was partially turned away, as if she was looking at something just out of frame. Ethan’s heart ached as he studied the picture, trying to decipher the expression on her face. Was she happy? Sad? He couldn’t tell. The photo was both revealing and elusive, a glimpse of a moment that was now lost forever.

Ethan felt a surge of frustration. It was as if his mother was still hiding from him, even in these old, faded memories. He wanted to know more, to understand who she had been, but all he had were these fragments, each one telling only part of the story. He set the photograph aside and continued to rummage through the box, his hands moving faster, as if he could force the answers to reveal themselves if he searched hard enough.

There was a folded piece of paper at the bottom of the box, yellowed with age and brittle at the edges. Ethan unfolded it carefully, his eyes scanning the handwritten words. It was a letter, but most of the text was faded, the ink barely legible. He could make out a few words—"miss," "soon," and "love," but the rest was lost, as if time itself had conspired to erase the message. He read the words over and over, hoping they would somehow make sense, but they remained stubbornly vague, taunting him with their ambiguity.

“Why did you leave?” Ethan whispered, his voice barely audible in the stillness of the attic. “Was it because of me?”

He knew he wouldn’t get an answer, but he couldn’t stop himself from asking. It felt like a question that had been buried inside him for years, one that he had never dared to voice aloud. But now, with these relics of his mother’s life spread out in front of him, it was impossible to ignore. He wanted to know the truth, even if it hurt. Especially if it hurt.

As he sat there, surrounded by the remnants of a past he didn’t fully understand, he heard the faint creak of the attic door. He turned to see his grandmother, Margaret, standing in the doorway. Her eyes were wide, her expression a mix of surprise and concern. “Ethan, what are you doing up here?” she asked, her voice soft but firm.

“I was just… looking,” he said, trying to sound casual. But he could see the way her gaze flickered to the open box, the scarf draped over the edge, and he knew she understood. “I found some of Mom’s things. I wanted to know more about her.”

Margaret hesitated, her hands clasped tightly in front of her. For a moment, Ethan thought she might turn and leave, but then she stepped further into the room, her eyes never leaving his. “I’ve told you before, Ethan,” she said quietly. “Some things are better left in the past.”

“But why?” he asked, his voice rising. “Why can’t I know? She was my mother. Don’t I have a right to understand what happened?”

Margaret’s face softened, and she sighed, a weary sound that seemed to carry the weight of years. “It’s not that simple,” she said. “Your mother… she was complicated. There were things she struggled with, things that made it hard for her to stay. We tried to protect you, to keep you safe from all of that.”

Ethan felt a flash of anger. “Safe from what? From the truth? I don’t need protecting, Grandma. I need answers.”

Margaret’s eyes filled with a sadness that Ethan had never seen before, and for a moment, he thought she might finally tell him everything. But then she shook her head, her expression hardening. “I’m sorry, Ethan,” she said. “I can’t give you what you’re looking for. I wish I could, but some things… some things are just too painful to bring back.”

Ethan’s shoulders slumped, the fight draining out of him. He had been so sure that if he could just find the right words, he could get Margaret to open up, but now he realized how wrong he had been. She wasn’t hiding the truth out of cruelty; she was doing it out of love, out of a desire to protect him from a pain she thought he couldn’t handle. But that didn’t make it any easier to accept.

Margaret reached out and gently took the scarf from his hands, folding it carefully before placing it back in the box. “Your mother loved you,” she said softly. “Whatever else happened, I need you to remember that. She loved you more than anything.”

Ethan wanted to believe her, but it was hard. How could she have loved him and still left? The two things didn’t fit together in his mind, no matter how much he tried to make sense of it. He felt like he was standing on the edge of a precipice, staring into a void that was both terrifying and mesmerizing. He could either step back and live with the uncertainty, or he could take the plunge and risk everything to find the truth.

“I’m not going to stop,” he said, his voice barely more than a whisper. “I need to know what happened. Even if it hurts.”

Margaret looked at him for a long moment, and Ethan thought he saw a flicker of something—fear, maybe, or regret. But whatever it was, she quickly buried it, her expression becoming unreadable once more. “I understand,” she said finally. “But be careful, Ethan. Some doors, once opened, can’t be closed again.”

Ethan nodded, but he didn’t really hear her. His mind was already turning, already planning his next move. He would find out what had happened to his mother, no matter how many secrets he had to uncover, no matter how many lies he had to expose. Because he was tired of living in the dark, tired of feeling like a stranger in his own life. And if no one else would tell him the truth, he would find it himself, even if it meant tearing everything apart to get there.