After hearing Dad close their door and leave, I slowly sat on the edge of my bed, still trying to process what I had just heard.
For the past six months, I have admired Mom as a caring, loving, and supportive parent—the one who stayed by my side during my recovery, encouraging me every step of the way. But now, I was starting to see another side of her. The woman who had nurtured me was also the one who had controlled my life since I was a child.
I glanced at the cello case resting on my bed, its sleek black surface reflecting the soft glow of my bedroom lights. Questions swirled in my mind.
Did I really love playing music?
Did I truly enjoy the cello, the stage, the thunderous applause of the crowd?
Or had it all been the result of my mother's careful, relentless influence? A life she had crafted for me—one I had simply followed without question?
I reached out, my fingers brushing against the case, but instead of feeling warmth or nostalgia, all I felt was uncertainty.
For the first time, I wasn't just questioning my past—I was questioning who I really was and who I could have been if Mom had let me choose my own path.
Would I still have been a musician? Would I have fallen in love with the cello on my own, without her influence? Or would I have discovered a different passion, a different calling—one that truly belonged to me?
I exhaled slowly, feeling the weight of uncertainty settles over me. The cello had been such a huge part of my life before, yet it felt so foreign to me now. If playing music had truly been my dream, why didn't I feel any connection to it anymore? Why did it feel like I was staring at a stranger's past instead of my own?
I lay back on my bed, staring at the ceiling, my mind restless with what-ifs.
What kind of person would I have become if Mom had let me follow my own dreams?
And more importantly—was it too late to find out?
I sat in silence for a moment, lost in my thoughts, before finally shaking off the haze of uncertainty. Enough overthinking.
I got up from my bed, deciding that a warm bath might help clear my mind. Walking into my bathroom, I turned on the faucet, letting the water fill the bathtub. The steady sound of running water was oddly soothing.
Reaching for a bath bomb, I dropped it into the tub, watching as it fizzed and dissolved, releasing swirls of color and a calming scent into the water. The air quickly filled with the soft aroma of lavender and vanilla, wrapping around me like a comforting embrace.
As the tub filled, I leaned against the counter, catching my reflection in the mirror. My face looked tired—maybe from the workout, maybe from the emotional weight of the day. Either way, I needed this moment of peace.
Once the bath was ready, I undressed and slowly sank into the warm water, letting the heat relax my tense muscles. Closing my eyes, I took a deep breath, allowing myself—for just a little while—to forget about everything.
As I lowered myself into the warm, fragrant water, a soft sigh escaped my lips. The heat seeped into my skin, loosening the tension in my muscles and easing the heaviness in my chest. The bath bomb had turned the water into a swirl of deep purples and blues, tiny bubbles floating to the surface before popping in quiet bursts.
I leaned my head back against the edge of the tub, letting my damp hair stick to my shoulders as I closed my eyes. The scent of lavender and vanilla filled the air, a stark contrast to the storm of thoughts in my mind.
The events of the day replayed themselves—the cello, the video, Mom and Dad's argument. Was my entire life before the accident just an illusion? Had I been living out someone else's dream without ever realizing it?
I ran my fingers through the water absentmindedly, creating ripples that distorted my reflection. Who was I before all of this? And more importantly—who am I now?
I opened my eyes, staring at the ceiling, my thoughts floating as weightlessly as the petals from the bath bomb drifting around me.
For six months, I had been trying to piece together the fragments of my lost memories, hoping to rediscover the person I used to be. But maybe… maybe I wasn't meant to go back. Maybe I was meant to become someone new.
As the warmth of the water wrapped around me, I let out a deep breath, as if releasing some of the pressure I had been carrying.
Maybe it was time to stop chasing my past and start deciding my future.
I didn't realize I was in the water for a long time not until I heard Nana Cecille calling my name "Noa?"
"In here" I said.
Nana walked near my bathroom door and said "your dad's looking for you, he wants you to join him for lunch at the balcony."
"Tell him I'll be there in a minute I'll just get ready" i told her.
I hadn't realized how long I had been soaking in the bath until I heard a gentle voice calling my name.
"Noa?"
I blinked, the trance-like calm I had settled into breaking. Nana Celine.
"I'm in here," I called out, my voice slightly hoarse from the warmth of the steam-filled room.
I heard her footsteps approaching the bathroom door before she spoke again. "Your dad is looking for you. He wants you to join him for lunch on the balcony."
I sat up a little, letting the water drip from my arms as I ran a hand through my damp hair.
"Tell him I'll be there in a minute. I just need to get ready," I replied.
"Alright, dear. Don't take too long, I have prepared the food already." Nana said before retreating, her soft footsteps fading down the hall.
I sighed, stretching my legs beneath the water before finally deciding it was time to get out. As much as I wanted to stay wrapped in the warmth of the bath, I knew I couldn't avoid reality forever.
I lingered in the water for a few more seconds, staring at the ripples forming around my fingertips as I lightly traced the surface. The bath had calmed my body, but my mind was still restless.
Lunch with Dad. It had been a long time since we'd spent time alone together. He was always busy with work, and I had been too caught up in my recovery to notice how little we had actually talked—really talked. But after what I overheard earlier, I had a feeling this lunch wasn't just about food.
With a deep breath, I finally sat up, reaching for a towel. The air outside the tub was cooler, making me shiver as I stepped out and wrapped myself in the soft, plush fabric. I ran my hands over my arms, trying to shake off the lingering chill as I padded over to the mirror. My reflection stared back at me—rosy cheeks from the heat of the bath, damp hair clinging to my shoulders, eyes still carrying the weight of everything I had been thinking about.
I sighed and turned away, grabbing another towel to dry my hair as I made my way to the walk-in closet. I didn't want to keep Dad waiting too long, but I also didn't want to rush. If this lunch was going to be as serious as I suspected, I needed a moment to compose myself.
After a few minutes of searching, I finally settled on something simple—light, comfortable clothes that made me feel at ease. I chose a loose, blush pink knitted sweater that was both cozy and stylish, pairing it with classic denim jeans for a relaxed yet put-together look. Since the weather was chilly, I opted for minimal accessories, letting the soft texture of my sweater and the effortless appeal of my outfit speak for themselves.
As I brushed through my damp hair, my mind drifted back to the conversation between my parents. Dad had defended me. He had stood up to Mom, insisting that I should have the freedom to make my own choices. And while I was grateful for that, I couldn't ignore the heaviness in Mom's voice—the frustration, the sadness.
I had spent the last six months seeing her as my biggest supporter, the one who never left my side during my recovery. But now, I wasn't sure if she was supporting me or the version of me she wanted me to be.
Shaking off the thought, I took one last look in the mirror, smoothing out my sweater before stepping out of my room.
Whatever Dad wanted to talk about, I was ready to hear it.
As I stepped out of my room, the soft tapping of my footsteps echoed down the quiet hallway. The house felt still, as if holding its breath—perhaps mirroring my own anticipation. I made my way toward the balcony, passing by the grand staircase and the familiar paintings that lined the walls, each one a piece of a past I still struggled to remember.
The scent of freshly cooked food drifted through the air, mingling with the soft breeze coming in from the open balcony doors. As I reached the entrance, I spotted Dad already seated at the glass-top table, a newspaper folded neatly beside his plate. He looked up the moment he heard me approach, a warm smile crossing his face.
"There she is," he said, setting the paper aside. "I was starting to think you fell asleep in the bathtub."
I chuckled softly, shaking my head. "I might have, if Nana Celine hadn't come looking for me."
He gestured for me to sit, and as I pulled out the chair, I took in the setup before us. The table was elegantly arranged—white porcelain plates, polished silverware, and a variety of dishes spread between us. A fresh salad, grilled salmon, roasted vegetables, and a basket of warm bread.
"You didn't have to go all out, Dad," I said, raising an eyebrow.
He poured me a glass of lemon-infused water before replying, "I wanted this lunch to be special. It's been a while since we sat down like this, just the two of us."
There was something in his tone—gentle, yet weighted with meaning. I could tell this wasn't just a casual meal. He had something to say, something important.
I took a sip of my water, bracing myself. "Alright, Dad. What's on your mind?"
He exhaled, leaning back slightly in his chair as he studied me for a moment. Then, with a small nod, he spoke.
"I just wanted to check in on you, Noa. After everything… after what happened today with your mother. I know you heard us arguing."
I hesitated, my fingers tracing the rim of my glass. There was no point in denying it. "Yeah, I heard."
Dad sighed, rubbing his temple. "I won't lie to you—this is hard for your mom. She's always seen you as this brilliant musician, and in her mind, that path was already set for you. It's not that she doesn't want you to be happy, but… she's struggling to accept that your dreams might be different now."
I swallowed, feeling a tightness in my chest. "I get that, Dad. I really do. But I can't force myself to love something I don't even remember loving. It's like… I'm expected to be someone I don't even recognize anymore."
He nodded in understanding. "And you shouldn't have to. That's why I'm supporting you in this decision, Noa. If law school is what you want, then I'll make sure you get there."
Hearing those words made my heart feel lighter, yet there was still an ache—because I knew that no matter how much Dad supported me, Mom still wasn't on the same page.
"What about Mom?" I asked hesitantly.
He exhaled, looking out at the garden below before turning back to me. "She'll come around. It may take time, but she loves you, Noa. And eventually, she'll see that what matters most is your happiness, not the life she envisioned for you."
I wanted to believe that. I really did.
I looked down at my plate, my appetite suddenly feeling smaller than before. But I forced a small smile, knowing Dad was trying his best to reassure me.
"Thanks, Dad. That really means a lot."
He reached across the table, giving my hand a firm but comforting squeeze. "You've been through enough, sweetheart. It's time you start living life on your own terms."
For the first time in a long while, I felt like I was finally heading in the right direction.