Is That Mom

Part 7 of Chapter 2

Chapter 2:

Ethan's Growing Determination

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Part 7:

Grandma’s Quiet Grief

The house was quiet that evening, wrapped in a stillness that felt heavier than usual. Ethan had been lost in his room, his mind swirling with thoughts about the cryptic posts he had found, the town that might be real, and the elusive truths he was desperate to uncover. He had been avoiding his grandmother more than ever, not wanting to face the awkward silence that had settled between them. But tonight, as he stepped out of his room to grab a glass of water, he noticed a faint light flickering from the living room, where there usually was none.

Curious, Ethan walked down the hallway, his footsteps muffled by the carpet. As he approached the doorway, he heard a soft, rhythmic sound, like someone gently breathing in and out, but with an uneven hitch. He slowed down, peering around the corner, and his heart dropped at the sight that met him.

His grandmother was sitting on the old, floral-patterned couch, hunched over a photo album resting on her lap. Her shoulders were shaking, and even from across the room, Ethan could see the way her hands trembled as she turned the pages. In the dim light of the single lamp beside her, she looked small, fragile, and unlike the strong, determined woman he had grown up with. For the first time in his life, Ethan saw her crying.

The scene startled him. He had never seen her like this—so open, so vulnerable. She had always been the stoic one, the anchor that kept everything steady, even when things were falling apart. But now, she looked as if she was carrying the weight of the world, and it was finally too much to bear.

Ethan hesitated at the doorway, unsure whether he should make his presence known or quietly retreat back to his room. Part of him wanted to comfort her, to ask what was wrong, to tell her that whatever she was feeling, she didn’t have to carry it alone. But another part of him was afraid—afraid that if he stepped into that room, he would see a side of her that he wasn’t ready to confront, a side that would reveal just how deep their shared pain truly ran.

As he stood there, torn between his instincts, his grandmother let out a shaky breath, a sound that seemed to echo through the stillness of the house. She flipped another page in the album, and Ethan caught a glimpse of the images—pictures of his mother, young and vibrant, her eyes bright with a happiness he barely remembered. There were photos of birthdays, family gatherings, and moments that felt like they belonged to a different life, one that had been lost to time.

Ethan felt his chest tighten. He had looked through those albums before, but never with the same sense of urgency, the same need to connect the dots that his grandmother was showing now. He wondered what she was seeing as she looked at those photos—memories of happier times, or reminders of everything that had gone wrong. Whatever it was, it had brought her to tears, and that alone was enough to unsettle him.

He took a tentative step forward, the floor creaking under his weight. His grandmother’s head snapped up, and for a moment, their eyes met. Her face was wet, her eyes red-rimmed and puffy, and she quickly wiped at her cheeks, as if trying to erase any evidence of her grief. But there was no hiding it; the raw emotion was still there, laid bare in the dim light.

“Ethan,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper. “I didn’t hear you come in.”

“I… I was just getting some water,” he replied, his words faltering as he tried to gauge her reaction. “Are you… okay?”

She forced a small, wavering smile, the kind that didn’t reach her eyes. “I’m fine, dear. Just… reminiscing, that’s all.”

Ethan didn’t believe her, and he suspected she knew it. He glanced at the album on her lap, then back at her, trying to find the right words. “I’ve never seen you look at those photos before,” he said softly. “Not like this.”

His grandmother’s smile faded, and she looked down at the album, her fingers tracing the edge of one of the pictures. “Some memories are harder to revisit than others,” she murmured, almost to herself. “But sometimes, they’re all we have left.”

The sadness in her voice hit Ethan like a punch to the gut. He had been so focused on his own search, his own need for answers, that he hadn’t stopped to consider how all of this might be affecting her. She had lost a daughter, and even though she had always tried to be strong for him, he could see now that the loss had never really left her. It had just been buried, hidden beneath layers of strength and resilience, until it found its way to the surface tonight.

Ethan wanted to ask her about the photograph he had found, to push her for the truth, but as he stood there, watching her struggle with her emotions, he couldn’t bring himself to do it. It felt wrong, like prying open a wound that was still bleeding. Instead, he walked over to the couch and sat down beside her, careful not to disturb the album.

They sat in silence for a while, the only sound the faint ticking of the clock on the wall. Ethan didn’t know what to say, and he got the sense that his grandmother didn’t either. It was as if they were both waiting for the other to break the silence, to say something that would make everything okay again. But no words came, because there were no words that could make sense of the pain they were both feeling.

Finally, his grandmother closed the album, her hands resting on the cover. “I wish I could give you all the answers you’re looking for,” she said quietly. “I wish I could make everything make sense. But some things… some things are too painful to talk about.”

Ethan’s heart sank. He had been hoping, even if only a little, that this moment of vulnerability might open the door to a conversation, that she might finally tell him what she had been hiding. But instead, it felt like another wall had been put up between them, one that he couldn’t see past.

“I just want to understand,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. “I just want to know who she was, and why… why she left.”

His grandmother looked at him, her eyes filled with a mix of sorrow and something else—regret, maybe, or guilt. “She didn’t leave, Ethan,” she said, her voice trembling. “She was taken from us, in ways you can’t imagine. And I’ve tried… I’ve tried so hard to protect you from that.”

Ethan’s breath caught. “What do you mean, taken?” he asked, but his grandmother shook her head, as if she had already said too much.

“I can’t,” she said, her voice breaking. “I can’t, Ethan. Please, don’t make me relive it.”

Ethan felt a surge of frustration, the kind that came from wanting answers and being met with more questions. But as he looked at his grandmother, at the way she was struggling to hold herself together, he realized that pushing her now would only make things worse. Whatever had happened, it was too painful for her to talk about, and forcing her to confront it wouldn’t bring him any closer to the truth.

So he swallowed his frustration, and instead, he reached out and took her hand. It was a small gesture, one that felt almost insignificant given everything they were dealing with, but it was all he could offer. His grandmother squeezed his hand in return, and for a brief moment, it felt like they were connected again, like they were sharing the same grief instead of being divided by it.

As the night wore on, Ethan sat there with her, letting the silence fill the space between them. He still didn’t have the answers he was looking for, but he understood now that his grandmother’s pain was just as real as his own. And as much as he wanted to find the truth, he didn’t want to hurt her in the process.

But even as he sat there, comforting her, he couldn’t shake the feeling that the truth was slipping further away. And the more he thought about it, the more determined he became. He knew he would have to find the answers on his own, even if it meant following the lead he had found, and leaving behind the only family he had ever known.