Is That Mom

Part 1 of Chapter 2

Chapter 2:

Ethan's Growing Determination

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Part 1:

Discovering the Clue

The attic was suffocating with dust and clutter, every surface layered with the remnants of forgotten years. Old cardboard boxes were stacked haphazardly, some with faded labels, others unmarked, leaving their contents a mystery. The musty scent of old paper and decaying fabric filled the space, mingling with the sharp scent of mildew. It was the kind of place Ethan had avoided for most of his life, a graveyard of memories that seemed to belong to someone else.

But today, he was drawn to it. The events of the past few days had stirred something inside him—a sense of restlessness, a need to find answers. His encounter with Sarah at the café had left him with more questions than ever, and he felt like he was grasping at threads, desperate to weave them into something coherent. He’d hardly slept the night before, and now, as the early morning light seeped through the small, grime-streaked window, he found himself rummaging through boxes, hoping to find something—anything—that could give him a clue.

He brushed a layer of dust off a box labeled with his mother’s name, written in neat, looping handwriting. The sight of her name sent a jolt through him, a mixture of longing and sadness. He hesitated for a moment, his hands hovering over the lid. He knew whatever was inside would be a fragment of her life, a piece of the person she had been before she vanished. But would it bring him closer to understanding her, or would it only deepen the mystery?

Ethan slowly lifted the lid, the cardboard creaking softly as it gave way. Inside, he found a collection of items that seemed unremarkable at first glance—an old hairbrush, a few worn-out novels, some pieces of costume jewelry tangled together. He sifted through them, his movements careful, almost reverent, as if he were afraid of disturbing something fragile. Each item felt like a small echo of her, a whisper from a past he could barely remember.

Then, at the bottom of the box, he found a photograph. It was slightly yellowed with age, the edges curled from years of being tucked away. Ethan picked it up and brushed off the dust, squinting at the image. It was of his mother, younger than he’d ever seen her, cradling a baby—himself—in her arms. Her hair was pulled back, her smile soft and serene, but her eyes… there was something in her eyes that caught his attention. A sadness, perhaps, or a hint of something unspoken.

But what struck him more was the background. Behind her was a place he didn’t recognize. It looked like a park, but not one from their small town. The trees were different, taller and thicker, their branches arching overhead to create a canopy of green. There was a building in the distance, partially obscured, with a dark, pointed roof that seemed to loom over the scene. Ethan had no memory of ever being there, and he couldn’t think of any reason why his mother would have taken him to such a place.

His heart began to race as he studied the photograph, trying to make sense of it. It was a strange feeling, like he was seeing a piece of a puzzle that didn’t quite fit, yet it was tantalizingly close. For the first time, he felt like he was holding a tangible connection to his mother, something that could lead him closer to understanding who she was and why she had left. But the unfamiliar location in the photo raised new questions. Why had no one ever mentioned this place? And why did the sight of it make him feel uneasy, as if he were looking at something he wasn’t meant to see?

He was so absorbed in the photograph that he didn’t hear the creak of footsteps on the stairs. It wasn’t until he heard a soft gasp that he looked up, startled. His grandmother was standing in the doorway, her face pale and her eyes wide. For a moment, they just stared at each other, a heavy silence settling between them. Ethan could see the shock in her expression, the way her gaze flicked from his face to the photograph in his hand, as if she were trying to make sense of what she was seeing.

“Where did you find that?” she asked, her voice barely more than a whisper.

Ethan hesitated, unsure how to respond. “In one of Mom’s old boxes,” he said finally, holding up the photo for her to see. “I don’t remember this place. Do you?”

His grandmother didn’t answer right away. She took a step forward, her eyes fixed on the photograph, and Ethan could see her hands trembling slightly. It was as if the sight of it had shaken something loose inside her, something she had kept tightly locked away. When she spoke again, her voice was strained, almost as if she were forcing the words out. “It must have been… at a friend’s place,” she said, but the explanation sounded weak, even to her own ears.

Ethan frowned, sensing that there was more she wasn’t saying. “What friend?” he pressed. “I don’t remember ever visiting anywhere like this.”

His grandmother’s gaze flickered, and she quickly averted her eyes, busying herself with smoothing down the front of her apron. “It was a long time ago, Ethan,” she said, her tone a little too brisk. “I’m sure it’s nothing important.”

But Ethan wasn’t convinced. He could hear the tension in her voice, the way it wavered ever so slightly, and he knew she was hiding something. His mind raced, trying to piece together what little he knew, but it was like trying to hold water in his hands—every time he thought he had a grasp on something, it slipped away.

“Why won’t you tell me?” he asked, his voice low and steady, but with an edge of frustration. “If you know something about Mom, why can’t you just say it?”

His grandmother froze, her hands clenching into fists at her sides. For a moment, Ethan thought she might finally tell him, that she might let the words spill out and bring some clarity to the murkiness that had surrounded his mother’s disappearance for so long. But then she shook her head, a sad, weary smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. “Some things are better left in the past, Ethan,” she said softly. “You don’t need to dig them up.”

The words hit him like a punch to the gut. He had heard them before, so many times, from her and from others, and every time they felt like a door slamming shut in his face. But this time, they stung more, because he had come so close to finding something real, something that felt like a key to everything he’d been searching for. He could see the fear in her eyes, the way she was trying to hide it, and it only made him more determined.

“Maybe I do,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper, but there was a hard edge to it. “Maybe I need to understand why she left. Why no one will talk about it.”

His grandmother’s expression softened, and for a moment, Ethan thought he saw a flicker of pain pass across her face. But she said nothing, just stood there, her shoulders slumped as if the weight of his words had drained all the strength from her. Then, without another word, she turned and walked out of the attic, leaving him alone with the photograph and a sense of emptiness that felt heavier than the boxes around him.

Ethan stared down at the photo, his mind a whirlwind of thoughts. He didn’t know what it meant, but he was sure of one thing: he wasn’t going to let this go. The unfamiliar place in the background, the strange look in his mother’s eyes—it was all connected, and he was going to find out how. Even if it meant pushing past the barriers his grandmother had tried to put up, even if it meant uncovering things he wasn’t ready to face.

For the first time, he felt a spark of determination, a flicker of hope that he might finally be able to piece together the fragments of his mother’s story. And he knew, deep down, that whatever lay at the end of this path, he had to see it through.