In the dim yellow light, I noticed old photos plastered all over the wall: pictures of Ethan from childhood to adulthood – mostly alone or with his mother.
On the table, there was a diary.
The first page read:
“After the ac:ci:dent, it was just you and me. Your father d:ied, but people blamed your mother.”
“From then on, I swore I would never let anyone take you away again.”
I shivered.
The next page had scribbled, erased, and repeated words:
“She can’t take him away. No one can.”
And at the bottom was my wedding photo – my face torn to shreds.
I brought the diary to Ethan to see.
He was silent for a long time, then said:
“When I was 10, my father d:ied in a fire. The police suspected my mother of causing it, but there was not enough evidence.
She lost all faith, and from then on she kept me by her side.
Anyone who came near me – friends, girlfriends – disappeared.”
I choked up.
“Do you believe your mother is hiding something?”
He nodded:
“I always felt… my father’s de:a:th was not an accident.”
One evening, I made a decision to confront her.
As Ethan went out, I looked for Margaret in the study.
“You don’t have to control him anymore,” I said, my voice trembling.