Beneath The Surface

How Could You?

The house is quiet when I get home, but the moment I step inside, I feel the tension. It’s not the usual stillness. It’s heavy, suffocating. My bag slips off my shoulder, landing softly on the floor.

I don’t call out to her. I don’t have to.

“Samara!” My mom’s voice cuts through the silence, sharp and trembling.

Before I can react, she’s in front of me, her eyes red and glassy. I take a step back, but she doesn’t give me room to breathe.

“Let me see,” she says, her voice breaking. Her hands reach out, almost hesitant at first, but then stronger, more desperate.

“What are you doing?” I ask, my voice barely above a whisper.

“Where are they?” she demands, tears streaking down her face. Her hands are on me now, pulling at my sleeves, searching.

“Stop!” I say, trying to pull away, but she’s relentless.

“Samara, please,” she cries, her voice shaking. She yanks up one of my sleeves, exposing faint scars and fresh, angry lines. She gasps like she’s been hit. “Why?” she whispers. “Why would you do this?”

I don’t answer. I can’t.

Her hands move to my other arm, pulling it free before I can stop her. More scars. More evidence. Her breathing turns ragged, and she stumbles back, shaking her head like she doesn’t believe what she’s seeing.

“Oh my God,” she whispers, her voice breaking. “How could I not know? How could I not see this?”

She’s crying harder now, and it’s unbearable to watch. I take a step back, wrapping my arms around myself as though that will shield me from her tears.

Her phone is suddenly in her hand, her fingers trembling as she dials.

“Who are you calling?” I ask, my voice sharper than I intend.

“Dr. Martins,” she says, her voice thick with emotion.

“She already knows,” I mutter, my gaze fixed on the floor.

Her head snaps up, her face a mixture of shock and betrayal. “She knows? How long has she known?”

I shrug, my arms tightening around myself. “A while.”

Her voice rises, desperate and trembling. “And she didn’t tell me?”

I don’t answer.

When Dr. Martins picks up, I can hear her calm, measured tone through the phone, though I can’t make out her exact words. My mom’s voice, however, is anything but calm.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” she asks, her words tumbling out in a rush. “My daughter has been hurting herself, and I didn’t even—”

“Did Samara tell you herself?” Dr. Martins interrupts, her voice steady and firm.

“Well, no,” my mom admits, her voice faltering.

“Then I couldn’t have told you,” Dr. Martins says. “Samara is legally an adult. I can’t disclose anything unless she gives me permission. But I will say this: what she needs from you right now isn’t judgment. She needs understanding. Make her feel safe, not ashamed.”

My mom lets out a shaky breath, nodding even though Dr. Martins can’t see her. “Thank you,” she whispers before hanging up.

She turns back to me, her eyes red and swollen. For a long moment, she doesn’t say anything. She just looks at me, like she’s trying to find the right words but doesn’t know where to start.