"I knew it," Mom said, her voice laced with tri ph as she slowly clapped her hands together. A satisfied smile spread across her lips, her eyes gleaming with something that made my stomach twist.
"You never lost it," she continued, stepping closer. "It just needed a little reminder." Her hand reached up to smooth my hair, her touch light, almost tender-but there was something else in it. Something possessive.
I didn't move.
I didn't speak.
I could only stare in disbelief, my breath caught somewhere between shock and denial.
I didn't remember anything about the cello. Not the lessons. Not the hours of practice. Not the performances everyone swore I had once given. It was all a blank space in my mind, an empty void where memories should have been.
And yet-
My body remembered.
My fingers had moved as if they had done this a thousand times before. My posture had settled into place without hesitation. And the sound...
The sound had come effortlessly.
It hadn't been a mistake. It hadn't been a fluke.
It had been real.
Something inside me knew how to play.
A cold shiver ran down my spine as I realized what this meant.
This wasn't just about the cello anymore.
If my hands could remember something my mind had forgotten... what else was still buried inside me?
I quickly stood up, placing the cello on my bed as if it had burned me. My hands trembled slightly, my mind struggling to process what had just happened. I stared at the instrument, my chest tightening with something I couldn't quite name-fear, confusion, disbelief.
This wasn't supposed to happen.
I looked at Mom. She was watching me intently, waiting for me to say something, to acknowledge what had just unfolded. But I couldn't. I didn't know how.
My eyes darted toward the door, and before I even realized what I was doing, my legs moved on their own.
I ran.
I sprinted out of my room, down the hallway, my pulse pounding in my ears. I didn't stop, didn't slow down, not even when I nearly tripped on the stairs. I needed to get away from that room, from that cello, from her.
I reached the balcony, desperately searching for Dad, but he was gone. My chest rose and fell rapidly as I turned to Nana Cecille, who was arranging the table.
"Where's Dad?" I asked breathlessly, my voice shaking.
She glanced up, concerned. "He's in his office, sweetheart."
I didn't wait for anything else. I turned on my heel and ran again, my heart racing, my mind still in chaos.
When I reached Dad's office, I didn't bother knocking. I pushed the door open, startling him as he sat behind his desk.
He looked up immediately. "Hey, what's wrong?" His brows furrowed, his voice full of concern.
I struggled to catch my breath, my hands gripping the doorframe. "I... I played the cello."
For a second, he just stared at me, his expression unreadable. Then his eyes widened, and he quickly got up, walking toward me. He gently took my hands in his, his grip warm and steady.
"Did you remember it?" His voice was filled with hope, his smile soft but eager.
I swallowed hard, shaking my head. "No... I still don't remember anything about playing. But... I don't know what happened. It's like my body knew what to do, even though my mind didn't."
He exhaled, a mix of surprise and relief flashing across his face. Then, he pulled me into a hug. "This is good news," he said, his voice reassuring.
I wanted to believe that. I really did.
But then I pulled away, my voice quieter, more hesitant. "Dad... Mom's going to push me to pursue this again. I know she will." I looked up at him, my chest tightening. "I don't think I'm ready to rebuild my music career. I don't want to."
His expression darkened slightly, but his grip on my hands remained firm. "We'll stick to the plan," he said, his voice unwavering. "You're going to law school. You're going to be a lawyer."
His eyes softened as he squeezed my hands reassuringly. "I'll handle your mom."
I wanted to believe that.
But deep down, I wasn't sure anyone could handle her.
She was no longer the woman I had known since waking up from my coma six months ago-the woman I had admired for her gentleness, modesty, love, care, and unwavering support.
That version of her-the mother who had held my hand in the hospital, who had wiped away my tears when I felt lost, who had promised to stand by me no matter what-was nothing more than an illusion.
Now, I was beginning to see the cracks beneath the surface.
Now, I was starting to question if that version of her had ever been real at all.
I was starting to believe that my mom wasn't just persistent-she was manipulative.
A force of nature that refused to be denied.
A woman who always got what she wanted, no matter what it took.
And now, for the first time in my life, I was beginning to see her for what she truly was.
A monster.
---
It was already evening when I finally decided to return to my room. I had spent the last few hours hiding in my dad's office, hoping to avoid running into Mom.
As I walked down the dimly lit hallway, the house was eerily quiet-until I reached their bedroom.
That's when I heard them arguing.
I froze, my breath hitching. Their voices were muffled through the door, but I could still make out every word.
"You never really learn, do you?" Dad's voice was tense, barely holding back his frustration.
"I just want what's best for my daughter-"
"Our daughter!" Dad cut her off sharply. "Do you still think Noa is a child? A five-year-old who needs help picking out her clothes? She's twenty-eight, Amanda! She's not your little girl anymore! Let her live!"
There was a pause.
Then Mom's voice came, softer this time-calmer, almost pleading. "This is where she belongs, Greg."
Dad let out a bitter laugh, filled with disbelief. "She belongs to her own dreams, Amanda. Not yours. Let her do what she wants, or I swear to God- I'm finally leaving you."
My heart stopped.
I felt like the air had been knocked out of my lungs.
I didn't wait to hear what Mom would say next.
Before Dad could step out and see me standing there, I turned and ran, slipping into my room as quickly and as quietly as I could.
I shut the door behind me and pressed my back against it, my chest rising and falling rapidly. My hands trembled as I clutched the fabric of my sleeves.
Dad's words echoed in my mind.
I'm finally leaving you.
I had never heard him say anything like that before.
And for the first time since waking up from my coma...
I wondered if my family was falling apart right in front of me.
I slowly lay down on my bed, my mind still replaying my dad's words over and over.
"Let her do what she wants, or I swear to God-I'm finally leaving you."
A heavy weight settled in my chest.
Was this my fault?
Had I unknowingly become the reason for their fights?
Before my coma, had they always been like this, or was it something I had caused by choosing a different path?
The thoughts swirled relentlessly in my mind, twisting into knots of guilt and confusion. I wanted to shut them out, to stop overthinking-but the harder I tried, the louder they became.
At some point, exhaustion won over.
Without even realizing it, my eyes fluttered shut, and I drifted into a restless sleep, my parents' voices still echoing in the back of my mind.
---
"What was that all about, Noa!?"
Mom's voice was sharp, laced with anger as she grabbed my arm, her nails digging into my skin. "You don't want to play anymore? After all I've done for you?" Her voice rose, filled with frustration. "I told you to ace the Juilliard audition! What the fuck was that!?"
I yanked my arm free from her grip, my heart pounding. "I told you-I don't want Juilliard!"
Mom exhaled a deep, heavy sigh, pressing her fingers against her temple as if trying to compose herself. When she spoke again, her tone was calmer-too calm, almost gentle, like she was trying to lure me into some false sense of security.
"So you ruined your whole performance just to get out of Juilliard?" she asked, tilting her head slightly.
I swallowed hard and nodded, my voice barely above a whisper. "I... I'm sorry, Mom."
Her expression softened. "Oh, sweetie, come here."
For a brief moment, I let my guard down.
For a brief moment, I thought she understood.
I thought she would finally comfort me.
I stepped forward, ready to let her hold me like she used to-but instead, a sharp crack rang through the air.
Pain exploded across my cheek as my head snapped to the side.
I stood frozen in shock, my skin burning from the force of the slap.
Mom's voice, now dripping with venom, cut through the silence. "So stupid. You are so fucking stupid!"
I stared at her-wide-eyed, stunned-while my cheek throbbed. My fingers twitched as I slowly reached up to fix my hair, trying to steady myself, trying to keep from breaking down in front of her.
Then, in a voice colder than I had ever used before, I said, "I did everything I could to make you happy, Mom. But you were never satisfied. And I don't think you ever will be."
I turned away, my feet moving toward the stairs. But before I reached them, I stopped.
I looked back at her, my vision blurred with unshed tears.
"I used to love this place." My voice wavered, but I forced myself to continue. "I used to love coming home. But not anymore-not because of this house, but because of you."
I inhaled shakily, my chest tight with emotions I could no longer contain.
"Your existence in this house makes it feel like hell."
The tears finally spilled down my cheeks, but I didn't care anymore.
"I hate you. And I hate this fucking house because of you."
With that, I turned and walked upstairs, leaving her standing there in silence.
---
I woke up-not violently, not gasping for air, just... awake. A calm, quiet awakening.
I reached for my phone, squinting against the dim glow of the screen. 3:00 AM.
The dream was still fresh in my mind, lingering like an echo. But was it really just a dream?
It felt too real.
Too vivid.
Like a memory.
I could still feel the sting of the slap, the burn of the anger in my chest. The words I had said, the way my mother had looked at me-it all felt like something that had actually happened.
And maybe it had.
I let out a slow breath, pressing the heel of my palm against my forehead.
Why is my mom always the antagonist in my dreams?
Was my subconscious trying to tell me something?
Or was it simply showing me a truth I had chosen to forget?
Maybe because it was real.
Maybe it wasn't just a dream. Maybe it was a memory-one buried deep, hidden beneath the pieces of myself that I lost after the accident.
The hate I felt in that dream wasn't fleeting. It wasn't the kind of anger that disappears when you wake up. It was deep, raw, and heavy, like something that had been simmering for years.
And the worst part?
Even now, fully awake, I could still feel it.
The resentment. The frustration. The exhaustion of never being enough for her.
If it was just a dream, then why did it hurt so much? Why did it feel like a wound that had never fully healed?
And if it was a memory...
What else had I forgotten?