Matthew (in middle school)
The shrill ring of my phone pierced the tense silence of my mind. My hand hovered over it, a lead weight in my stomach. It could be the hospital, the news of Mom worsening echoing in my head. Or worse. Just the thought of that name ignited a fresh wave of shame. My knuckles whitened as I finally answered.
"Mom?" My voice was a rough whisper, choked with a million unspoken apologies.
"Matthew, sweetheart!" Her voice, usually laced with warmth, held a tremor that sent a jolt through me. Relief battled with guilt in a fierce tug-of-war within me. "You won't believe it, but I'm awake!"
My heart pounded against my ribs. "You're awake? You're okay?"
"A little weak, but the doctors say I'll be alright. More importantly, you sound awful. Have you been okay?"
I ran a hand through my hair, the sleep deprivation evident even in the dim glow of my phone screen. "Yeah, I'm okay Mom," I mumbled. The truth was, 'feeling fine' had become a stranger since I stormed out of the hospital, a whirlwind of rage and accusations.
"Matthew," Mom's voice softened, laced with a hint of concern. "Come see me, okay? I miss you."
The invitation hung heavy in the air. Seeing her, facing her after the things I'd done – the accusation, the brawl at David uncle's office – filled me with a dread that knotted in my gut. Shame burned my throat raw. But could I deny this woman who'd just woken up from a faint, the woman who'd carried me for nine months, nurtured me, loved me unconditionally?
"I… I'll be there," I finally muttered, the words heavy on my tongue.
The cab ride was an agonizing blur. Every streetlight seemed an accusing eye, every passing car a silent judge. Finally, we pulled up in front of the stark white facade of the hospital. I stared up, the sterile building suddenly suffocating.
Taking a deep breath, I pushed open the doors and forced myself to walk towards Mom's room. Each step felt like wading through molasses, weighed down by guilt.
The door swung open silently, revealing Mom. She was propped up against pillows, her face still pale, but the relief blooming on her face at the sight of me washed away a fraction of the shame.
"Matthew!" Her smile, even weak, pierced through the fog of my emotions. Before she could speak, the words tumbled out of me in a torrent.
"Mom, I… I'm so sorry." My voice cracked, raw with regret. "I shouldn't have said those things. I…" Guilt choked me, taking the words hostage.
Her smile faltered, replaced by concern. "What are you talking about, sweetheart?"
Tears pricked at my eyes. How could I explain the irrational fury that had consumed me? The way I'd accused her, judged her, without understanding? "About Mr David," I blurted out, my voice barely above a whisper. Shame burned my cheeks.
Mom's brow furrowed. "Mr David? Matthew, what's going on?"
Taking a shaky breath, I told her everything. My blind rage, the fight, the accusations that hung heavy in the air like a poisonous cloud. I didn't spare myself, from detailing the full extent of my actions.
Silence descended upon the room after I finished, thick and suffocating. I braced myself for the storm, for anger, for disappointment.
Instead, Mom reached out, her hand frail but warm. It landed on mine, a silent plea for understanding. Slowly, she began to speak.
"Matthew, sweetheart," her voice was quiet, gentle. "Mr David is a friend. A kind, good man." Her eyes held mine, pleading for me to see past my rage. "After your father… well," she faltered, her gaze dropping for a moment. "I was lost, alone. David…"
She hesitated, then continued, her voice filled with a quiet strength. "David became my confidante, someone to talk to. He understood, Matthew. He lost his father when he was young. We share the pain of losing someone, of having to rebuild our lives."
A wave of shock washed over me. I hadn't considered that, hadn't thought about the grief that shadowed not just me, but my mother as well. The world around me shifted, my skewed perspective tilting back on its axis.
"He saw how your studies were affected," Mom continued, "how withdrawn you were. He suggested a change of scenery, a fresh start." Her words resonated with a truth I hadn't wanted to acknowledge. Ever since Dad's passing, the joy had gone out of studying, the city felt suffocating.
Shame burned hotter than ever. I hadn't seen Mom's struggles, blinded by my own anger. The guilt gnawed at me, a heavy weight in my chest.
"Mom," I rasped, my voice thick with emotion. "I… I shouldn't have jumped to conclusions." The words felt hollow compared to the storm of accusations I'd hurled at her.
She squeezed my hand gently. "Don't be so hard on yourself, sweetheart. You were worried, and grief can make us act irrationally." A tear welled in her eye, sparkling like a tiny diamond. "But seeing you here now, knowing you're okay… that's all that matters.
"I swallowed back the lump in my throat, wanting to apologize again, to express all the unspoken regret churning within me. But words felt inadequate. Instead, I reached out and wrapped my arms around her frail form, drawing her close. Her warmth seeped into me, a balm against the icy grip of guilt.
We sat in silence for a while, a comfortable silence punctuated only by the steady beep of the heart monitor. It was in this quiet space that the weight of her decision settled on me. Moving abroad, leaving everything behind – that was a big decision.
"Moving abroad?" I finally managed, the words hesitant.
Mom sighed. "It's just an idea, Matthew. A fresh start for both of us. A new environment might help you focus on your studies again."
"And you?" The question hung in the air, laced with concern.
She looked at me, her eyes holding a mix of hope and uncertainty. "David has offered to help with everything. He has contacts abroad, and with your school transcripts, getting you into a good university wouldn't be too difficult."
A million questions swirled in my head – about David uncle, about leaving everything familiar behind, about starting anew. But something held them back. The raw vulnerability in her eyes and the exhaustion etched on her face had a weight of their own.
"We can talk about it more later, okay?" I said finally. "Right now, I'm just glad you're awake."
Mom smiled, a genuine smile that reached her eyes. "Me too, sweetheart. Me too."
We sat in silence for a while, the unspoken words creating a bridge between us. The hospital room, once a symbol of fear, became a space for shared grief and tentative understanding.
"Can we talk about it when you get better?" I finally asked, my voice barely above a whisper. "About Dad, about everything?"
Mom nodded, a watery smile gracing her lips. "Yes, honey. We need to talk."
As I started to drift off at the hospital that night together with my Mom, the weight on my chest had lessened, replaced by a quiet resolve. I still didn't know if moving abroad was the right answer, but I knew one thing for certain – I wouldn't let my emotions cloud my judgment again. I owed it to Mom, and most importantly, to myself, to understand her side of the story before jumping to conclusions. Just because I was jumping on conclusions blindly without even trusting my own mother, I hurt people. I hurt my Mother, I hurt David uncle. I quietly promised myself that it would never happen again. I will never again hurt people because of my clouded judgement.
The city lights twinkled above me, no longer accusatory but hopeful. A fresh start, a chance to grieve in peace, to heal – maybe that's what we both needed.
I didn't yet want to move abroad since all my memories with Dad were all present here. But I guess I can have a talk with my Mom later about it. For now, I was successful in persuading her to go for a couple of therapy sessions together with me for Dr Evans. I hope it helps us both. I want to have an honest conversation with her about Dad, and I want her to forget about all the things Dad's paranoia led him to do in the last moments of his life, and only remember the good things about him. So that, he can be someone to remember by, for my mother. I also need to open up to Dr Evans about my perpetual fear of turning into my father. I know I said I won't do it again, but will it really be in my hands? Will it be really so easy for me to stop doubting people and trust them? And will I hurt someone I care about because of that? No, I won't let it happen again. I should not. I need to go to Dr Evans immediately.
That night, me and my Mother didn't talk about David or Dad or in fact anyone. We didn't need to. In that sterile room, with the steady beep of the heart monitor as a backdrop, we began to heal a different wound, the gaping hole left by Dad's absence.
The road to recovery, I knew, wouldn't be easy. My paranoia, a constant companion ever since Dad left me, would likely rear its ugly head again. But for now, in that moment of shared vulnerability, a fragile truce had been formed. We may not have had all the answers, but we had each other, and that was a start.
As Mom drifted off to sleep, the medication finally kicking in, a sense of peace settled over me. The truth, whatever it may be, could wait. For now, it was enough to simply be there for her, the son she needed, not the detective my paranoid mind had fashioned.