Nicholas repeated, his voice squeezed through clenched teeth.
My entire world collapsed, all my suspicions, all my vague fears had now become a raw, terrifying, bloody reality right before my eyes.
My first instinct was to burst in, to scream, to pull my son away, to protect Hazel, but in that instant, an ice cold current shot through my spine, locking every muscle in place.
The scene before me blurred, overlapping with another memory, a dark memory I had buried for years.
I no longer saw Nicholas and Hazel, I saw my husband, his eyes red from drink, grabbing my hair and forcing my head into the rain barrel in the backyard.
I heard his curses, felt the searing pain at the roots of my hair, the suffocating sensation of water rushing into my nose and mouth, and I felt the absolute powerlessness of struggling in despair.
That bone deep terror, resurrected after more than a decade, was stronger than maternal love, more powerful than reason, and it was a conditioned reflex that roared in my head.
“Run. Do not make a sound. Do not provoke him or you will be next.”
My body obeyed that command, and my legs did not rush forward, but instead, they instinctively backed away, turned, and ran.
I ran back to my room in one breath, not daring to look back, and I threw myself onto the bed and pulled the covers over my head like a wounded animal seeking a hiding place, lying there trembling all over, biting my lip to keep from crying out.
The water in the bathroom was still running, rhythmic and cruel, the background music to my family’s tragedy, to my own cowardice.
Then the memories came flooding back, unstoppable, and the hellish years of living with my abusive husband flashed before my eyes.
The unprovoked beatings just because a meal was not to his liking or a word was said incorrectly, and the long nights I held my own bruised body, crying silently, terrified my son in the next room would hear.
The mornings I had to cover the bruises on my face with foundation before going to teach, having to lie to my colleagues that I had fallen off my bike.
For over a decade, I lived like that until the day he received his death sentence from the hospital, and the day he died from his illness, I did not cry.
I only felt a sense of relief, as if a great weight had been lifted, and I thought I was free, but I was wrong.
The demon had not died with my husband, it had been resurrected, possessing the very son I cherished most, and I had spent a lifetime trying to correct him, to teach him not to follow in his father’s footsteps.
But in the end, the violent blood still flowed in his veins, and I had failed completely and utterly.
Tears began to stream down my face, no longer held back, and I was not just crying for Hazel, I was crying for my own tragic life, for a mother’s powerlessness, for this cruel reality.
I had escaped one cage, only to have indirectly pushed another woman into an identical one, a cage controlled by my own son.
After a long time, the water stopped, the house fell silent again, but this silence was more terrifying than the noise, thick with guilt and unspoken pain.
I knew that in the next room, my son was probably sleeping soundly after his cleansing, while my daughter in law was lying there alone, licking her physical and spiritual wounds.
I lay there, my tears dried, the fear passed, and the pain settled, leaving only a bone chilling clarity.
I could not stay here, I could not change my son, and I did not have the courage to confront him, to save Hazel, as I had fought that demon once in my life, and it had drained all my strength.
I could not fight it again, and staying here, I would slowly wither away in guilt and fear, so my only choice, the only way out for the rest of my life, was not this luxurious condo, but another place where I could find peace.
The next day, I had to leave, quietly and decisively.
The night of terror gave way to an unusually clear and peaceful morning, and sunlight streamed through the window, warm and pure, a stark contrast to the festering darkness in my soul.
I had not slept a wink, but my mind was exceptionally clear, the tears had run dry, and last night’s extreme fear and pain seemed to have been distilled into a cold, firm resolve.
I got out of bed, went to the bathroom, and looked at myself in the mirror, seeing a 65 year old woman, her hair white, her eyes sunken, her wrinkles etched with sorrow.
But in those eyes, there was no longer submission or fear, it was the look of a person who had reached the depths of despair and found the only path to survival.
I calmly prepared my last breakfast here, and the dining table was set as usual, but the atmosphere was suffocatingly tense, so I ate quietly, slowly, and deliberately.
Then I began to speak to my two children.
“Nicholas, Hazel,” I began, my voice not trembling in the slightest, “I have something to say.”
Nicholas looked somewhat impatient.
“What is it, Mom? Go ahead.”
I looked directly into my son’s eyes, then turned to my daughter in law, who was staring at her plate, and said each word clearly.
“I thought about it all night last night, and I have decided I am going to move into a retirement community.”
They were both stunned, and Nicholas was the first to react, his calm facade shattering.
“You what? A retirement community? Why? As your son is right here and you want for nothing in this big house, so why do you want to move there? Do you want people to talk behind my back? I do not approve.”
His objection, I knew, stemmed not from love, but from pride and selfishness, as he was afraid of public opinion, afraid of tarnishing his image as a successful, devoted son.
Hazel also looked up sharply, her wide eyes filled with panic and a hint of desperate pleading.
“Mom! Mom, did we… did we do something wrong to make you unhappy? Please do not go, Mom. Stay here with us.”
“It is not your fault. This place is wonderful. But I have realized that city life just is not for me, and I want you two to have your privacy. Newlyweds need their own life, and it is inconvenient for me to be here. Besides, I have looked into it. The retirement communities these days are very nice, like little resorts. There are lots of friends my own age, book clubs, chess clubs, and gardens I can tend to. I think I will be happier with that kind of life. It is more suitable for an old woman like me.”
