34 - ANOTHER CONFESSION

34 - ANOTHER CONFESSION


Aiden

Hospitals had a way of making you feel like a kid again.

Like you were small. Like you didn’t belong. Like every bad memory you ever tried to bury clawed its way up to remind you that you weren’t as grown as you pretended to be.

I moved through the lobby with long, purposeful strides, the fluorescent lights overhead buzzing like an unwanted thought in the back of my mind. I could hear Anika’s heels clicking against the tile behind me, but I barely registered it. My focus was on one thing and one thing only.

Her.

She was here. She was alive.

And she was dying.

The irony wasn’t lost on me.

I barely noticed the people around me, barely noticed the nurses bustling from one side of the room to another, barely noticed the smell of antiseptic clogging my nostrils. But then, I noticed her.

Cheryl.

She stood near the waiting area, arms wrapped around herself, her body slightly hunched forward like she wanted to fold into herself and disappear. The second she looked up and locked eyes with me, I felt that familiar pull—the thing we never talked about, the thing we both pretended didn’t exist—gripping me by the throat.

She looked… uncertain. Her lips parted slightly, like she wanted to say something, like maybe she was relieved to see me.

But then her eyes flickered behind me.

To Anika.

I didn’t have to look at her to know Cheryl had just shut down.

I watched her shoulders stiffen, watched the warmth drain from her expression like she’d flipped a switch. Like she was suddenly nothing but a woman in a hospital waiting room, and I was just a man passing by.

Something about that pissed me off.

The doctor appeared before I could let myself think about it too much.

"Mr. Scott?" Her voice was neutral, professional, but I could hear the hesitancy behind it.

I turned to her. "Yeah?"

She flipped through the chart in her hands before looking up at me. "Your mother is awake."

I inhaled slowly. Exhaled through my nose. "And?"

"She suffered a severe brain injury," the doctor said carefully. "We’ve managed to stabilize her, but she’s in critical condition. The next few hours will be crucial."

I clenched my jaw.

I wasn’t sure what I was feeling—wasn’t sure if it was relief, wasn’t sure if it was fear.

The doctor hesitated. "You can see her now, if you’d like."

I gave a stiff nod, then glanced at Cheryl.

She still wasn’t looking at me.

Fine.

I turned on my heel and followed the doctor. Anika walked beside me, silent and unreadable. Cheryl trailed a few steps behind, her presence a whisper of something I refused to name.

I should have been prepared for what I saw in that hospital room.

I wasn’t.

She lay there, frail and lifeless against the stark white of the hospital bed, her skin pale, her lips cracked, bruises forming dark patches against her sallow complexion. Tubes and wires snaked out from beneath the thin sheet covering her body, the rhythmic beeping of the heart monitor the only sign that she was still alive.

I swallowed hard.

This wasn’t the woman I remembered.

Then again, the woman I remembered had never been much of a mother.

Her hair, matted and streaked with gray, clung to her damp forehead. Her bony fingers twitched slightly, like she was fighting to wake up, fighting against whatever hell her body had put her through.

I hated how small she looked.

I hated how my first instinct was to reach for her.

She stirred, a soft, broken sound escaping her lips. Her eyelids fluttered, and then—her gaze found mine.

She froze.

Fear flickered in her eyes, quick and sharp.

It twisted something inside me, something ugly, something I wasn’t sure I was ready to name.

I hesitated before stepping closer.

"Mom?"

Her breath hitched. Her fingers twitched again, but she didn’t pull away when I finally—finally—took her hand in mine.

"I’ve been looking for you," I said, voice barely above a whisper.

She swallowed hard. I saw her throat bob, saw the way her lips trembled before she spoke.

"I have to tell you something."

I shook my head. "Not now. You need to rest."

But she gripped my hand tighter—so tight I could feel the fragile bones pressing against my skin.

"You don’t understand," she rasped. "I’m not… I’m not your real mother."

The words dropped like an anvil in the room.

I exhaled slowly, my grip tightening around her fingers.

"I know."

Her lips parted in shock.

"I’ve known for a while now," I admitted. "And it’s okay. You don’t have to—"

"No." She shook her head weakly. "You don’t know. I mean, you know I’m not Evelyn. But do you know who I am?"

I frowned. "You’re Molly."

Something shifted in her expression.

Then—she laughed.

Low. Bitter.

My stomach turned.

Her gaze met mine, sharp despite the weakness in her body.

"No," she whispered. "I am Molly. Evelyn stole my identity, left you in my custody, and dashed."

The room tilted.

I swore the air got sucked out of the space between us.

I didn’t speak. Couldn’t.

She wasn’t lying.

She couldn’t be.

I wanted to say something—wanted to deny it, wanted to tell her she was confused, that she was just delirious from the injury—but deep down, in some twisted, fucked-up way, I knew she was telling the truth.

I clenched my jaw, my throat working around the words I couldn’t find.

Cheryl.

I felt her before I saw her.

She had stepped closer at some point, her presence a steady thing just behind me. When I turned my head slightly, I caught the look on her face—eyes wide, lips slightly parted, shock bleeding into disbelief.

I knew she wanted to say something.

I knew she wouldn’t.

Not now.

Not when my entire world had just been ripped out from under me.

I turned back to the woman in the bed.

To Molly.

Or… whoever the hell she was.

She was watching me, her eyes swimming with something I couldn’t read. Something sad. Something broken.

And I hated her for it.

I hated that I believed her.

I hated that this explained everything—the missing gaps in my childhood, the strange way she looked at me when she thought I wasn’t watching, the fucking distance between us that had never made sense.

I hated that I still wanted to believe she had loved me anyway.

My chest tightened.

I let go of her hand.

She didn’t try to stop me.

I took a step back, exhaling sharply, trying to find my fucking bearings.

"You should rest," I said, voice strained. “We can talk about this later”

She didn’t argue.

I turned on my heel and walked out of the hospital room.

Cheryl was behind me.

I could feel her, hovering, unsure.

I wanted her to say something.

I needed her to say something.

But she didn’t.

And I hated her for that, too.