Chapter 6
The drive back to his mother’s house took twice as long in the pouring rain. The windshield wipers beat a frantic rhythm against the glass as Ethan replayed Margaret’s words in his mind. He had the address now. He had a name, a profession, and a direct line to the sister he never knew he had. Yet, as he pulled into the familiar driveway and cut the engine, a heavy knot of dread twisted in his stomach. He wasn't just angry anymore; he was terrified of what would happen when he walked back through that front door and faced the woman who had traded away a piece of her own flesh and blood for the sake of social propriety.
The house was dark except for a single lamp glowing in the living room window. Ethan stepped out of the car, letting the cold rain soak through his dark gray t-shirt as he walked up the concrete path. He didn't bother using his key; he pushed the front door open to find Eleanor sitting right where he had left her hours earlier. She hadn't moved from the armchair opposite the coffee table. The open box of photographs still sat between them, but now she was holding one of the letters close to her chest, her eyes red-rimmed and hollow from hours of uninterrupted weeping.
She looked up as he entered, her breathing shallow and uneven. She didn't try to stand up; she seemed to have aged ten years in the span of a single afternoon, the beige cardigan hanging loosely around her frail shoulders like a discarded shell.
"You're back," she whispered, her voice barely audible over the hum of the refrigerator in the kitchen.
"I went to see Margaret Vance," Ethan said, closing the front door firmly behind him. He didn't take off his wet jacket; he stood in the entryway, water dripping onto the hardwood floor, staring down at his mother with a gaze that was entirely devoid of warmth. "She gave me an address. Portland, Oregon. Her name is Maya now."
Eleanor flinched as if she had been struck physically. A soft, ragged sob escaped her lips, and she pressed her knuckles against her mouth to stifle it. "Maya," she repeated the name like a foreign incantation. "Your father... he swore to me that she was safe. He said we would never have to look back."
May you like
"Dad was a coward," Ethan said coldly, walking over to the coffee table and dropping the manila envelope from Margaret right next to the box of old photographs. "And you went along with it because it was easier to pretend she never existed than to face your own father's wrath. You traded your daughter for a comfortable life in this house."
"You think it was comfortable?" Eleanor suddenly flashed back, her voice rising with a desperate, fractured energy as she gripped the arms of the chair. "You think I haven't lived in this house every single day for thirty years feeling like a ghost haunting my own life? Every time I baked a cake, every time I watched you ride a bicycle, every time I tucked you into bed at night, I was counting the ghosts in the room, Ethan! I didn't forget her for a single second. Not one."
