This time, Cynthia didn't just freeze momentarily. She actually paused her movement, the spoon still in the soup. Her eyes failed to go back to meet Helen's, and her expression changed, like a mask which had cracked. And from the cracks, heavy emotions which had been kept at bay slipped to the surface.
Seeing everything, Helen felt sad. Her daughter, always bright and lively, had become like this. She didn't talk, waiting patiently for her daughter. The only support she offered was her gentle gaze full of pain and affection. She didn't even take her hand to transmit her warmth, because her daughter was strong, and she knew it.
"I have not talked to da– to him. Not since that night."
Helen knew who Cynthia was referring to in the words she spoke in a low voice. And it was tragic when she could only refer to him as… "him", not even able to finish the word she had been using for more than two decades.
