Chapter 6 - Nathan’s Confession
That evening, when Nathan came home from the hospital, the house was dark except for the warm glow of the living room lamps. I met him at the front door before he could even take off his coat.
He took one look at my face and sighed, dropping his keys into the ceramic bowl on the entryway table.
“You talked to her,” he stated quietly.
“Yes,” I replied, leading him into the kitchen and pouring him a glass of water. “I talked to her. And she told me everything, Nathan.”
Nathan froze, his hand stopping halfway to the glass. He stared at me, his eyes widening slightly.
“Did she... did she tell you about Maya?”
I nodded slowly. “She told me about your sister. She told me about what happened forty years ago.”
Nathan let out a long, shuddering breath, pulling out a chair at the kitchen table and sinking into it. He pressed his palms against his face, rubbing his eyes tiredly.
“I wasn't supposed to know,” he muttered through his fingers. “Or at least, she tried to protect me from it. I only found out when I was a teenager, cleaning out the attic and finding a small wooden box with a death certificate and a few baby clothes. When I confronted her, she broke down. That was the only time I ever saw my mother cry.”
He looked up at me, a deep sense of guilt etched into his features.
“That’s why she became a doctor’s mother,” Nathan continued, his voice thick with emotion. “That’s why she pushed me so hard to go into medicine, and why she’s so terrified of illness, of vulnerability, of anyone slipping away in the dark. The stroke she had last year... it damaged parts of her brain related to temporal orientation and trauma triggers. When she gets disoriented at night, her mind reverts entirely to that winter night.”
“She thinks she’s still trying to save Maya,” I said softly, pulling up a chair beside him and taking his hand.
May you like
Nathan squeezed my fingers tightly. “I’m sorry, Clara. I should have listened to you. I should have paid closer attention instead of brushing it off as childish imagination. We need to do something. We can’t let her keep doing this, but we can’t just lock her out or make her feel like a prisoner either. It would crush her.”
“I know,” I agreed firmly. “We aren't going to lock her out. We’re going to heal her.”
