Dr. Becker sits across from Wallace, one leg crossed over the other, a legal pad balanced on his knee. He’s got that therapist look—concerned but not too concerned, nodding in a way that says I hear you without making it about himself. Wallace hates that look, but he’s here, so he talks.

“She used to lock the fridge,” Wallace says. His voice is flat. A practiced kind of flat, like a table that’s been sanded down too much. “Put a bike chain around it. I could hear it clinking when she opened it. Wouldn’t even look at me, just pulled out whatever she wanted and closed it again.”

Dr. Becker nods. “How old were you?”

Wallace shrugs. “Seven? Eight? Old enough to know I wasn’t supposed to ask for food. Not if I didn’t wanna hear it.”

“Hear what?”

“The usual.” He shifts in his seat, runs a hand through his hair, yanks a little at the ends. “How I was a burden. How my father ran off because of me. How she shoulda left me at the hospital when I was born.” He doesn’t look at Becker. He focuses on a little rip in the couch cushion beside him, the stuffing peeking out like it’s eavesdropping.

Becker doesn’t rush him. That’s the worst part. He just lets it sit there, raw and open, waiting for Wallace to get sick of the silence.

Finally, Wallace exhales. “The worst part wasn’t the words. It was how normal it felt after a while. Like, I wasn’t even mad. I just believed her. A hundred percent.”

Becker scribbles something down. Wallace wonders if it’s self-worth issues or possible PTSD. Not that it matters. He already knows he’s fucked up. “And now?” Becker asks. “Do you still believe her?”

Wallace laughs, but there’s no humor in it. “I don’t think I do, but I still feel it. Like it’s carved in me.”

Becker nods again. The same slow, careful nod. “That makes sense.”

“Does it?”

“It does. That’s how emotional abuse works. It wires your brain to accept a certain reality, and even when you logically know better, that wiring stays.”

Wallace rubs his thumb against the couch. “So what, I’m just stuck like this?”

“No.” Becker leans forward a little. “It takes work, but you can rewire it. You already are. You’re here.”

Wallace doesn’t say anything to that. Just rolls his tongue along the inside of his cheek, feeling the old, familiar weight of doubt.

“I want you to try something,” Becker says. “I want you to imagine your mother sitting in front of you right now.”

Wallace goes stiff. His body knows before his mind catches up.

“Imagine she’s right here, and she just said one of those things she used to say. What do you say back?”

His fingers curl into his jeans. His chest tightens.

“I dunno.”

“Take a breath. Try.”

Wallace breathes, slow and deep, but it feels like sucking air through a straw.

He pictures her. The sharp line of her mouth. The way her eyes never softened, even when she smiled. He pictures her saying it, clear as a bell. You ruined my life.

He swallows. His throat feels thick.

But then, something moves in him. A shift. A flicker of something warmer than rage, stronger than fear.

“That’s not true,” he says, and the words feel foreign, but they land solid in his chest.

Becker smiles, just a little. “Good.”

-

The freeway hums under Wallace’s tires, the gray ribbon of asphalt stretching out ahead, pulling him forward like a current. The 405 to the 91 to the 71—familiar routes, roads he’s driven before but never with this kind of weight sitting on his chest. His fingers tighten around the steering wheel, his jaw clenches. The car’s too quiet, so he turns on the radio, but nothing sticks. He lands on some classic rock station, lets it play, lets the guitar riff fill the space where his thoughts are circling too fast.

This is stupid.

His mother isn’t going to change. He knows that. Has always known that. And yet here he is, running the words over in his head, testing them out, trying to imagine himself saying them without choking on them. That’s not true. Felt good in Becker’s office. Felt right. But that was in the safety of that little room with the shitty couch. His mom’s house is different. The air in there is thick, like stepping into a room filled with invisible hands that grab at your throat.

He takes the 91 East. No traffic. The universe is making this too easy.

His stomach twists. His grip loosens, then tightens again. He thinks about turning around, about saying fuck it, about letting it go. But he’s already too far in.

Past the Cerritos Mall, past the hills beginning to rise from the sprawl, he pictures her—sees the look she’ll give him: the tight-lipped smirk, the raised brow. The way she’ll sense the weakness before he even speaks.

The sign for Euclid Avenue blurs past.

His heart hammers.

I can’t do this.

He takes the off-ramp, pulls into a gas station and just sits. His chest rises and falls too fast, his pulse in his ears. His hands feel cold. What’s the point? She’ll laugh, tell him he’s being dramatic, turn the whole thing around until he’s the one apologizing. He knows how this goes.

His thumb taps against the steering wheel. The song on the radio changes.

He takes a breath. A real one this time.

And then another.

And then he backs out of the parking lot and gets back on the damn freeway.

The last stretch is fast. The hills roll into view, green from the last rain. Chino Hills still looks the same—strip malls, wide streets, cookie-cutter houses with big yards and the illusion of peace.

He pulls up to the house. It’s smaller than he remembers. The chain on the fridge flashes in his mind.

He gets out, shuts the car door. Stands at the front step. The frosted glass of the door obscures everything, but he knows she’s behind it. The shape of her. The hesitation.

She sees him. She knows his look.

The pause stretches.

Then the door opens.

She gives him a once-over, then smirks.

“Well. If it isn’t my little martyr.”

The wall was beige. Not because anyone liked beige, but because it hid things. Beige didn’t argue. It sat quiet, pretending the block south didn’t exist—the one with boarded windows and sagging porches. The wall was the line. Cross it, and you didn’t belong.

Then the red showed up. Smears, like kids’ drawings, faces barely faces, eyes like thumbprints. And the hands. Always the hands. Reaching, clawing, like they wanted to pull the wall down brick by brick. The city hated the hands. They painted over them fast, thick coats, like that’d make it go away. It didn’t.

The guy who did it? No one knew. Showed up after midnight, a spray can and a grudge. Every time they wiped him clean, he came back louder. Words this time. “THE WALL KEEPS NOTHING OUT.” Ugly truth, right there in block letters.

They hated him for it. Feared him, really. Not him—what he showed them. He feared them, too. Feared the day they’d bury him under fresh coats and he’d fade like everything else.

But tonight, he painted. A mother and child, hands outstretched across an empty gap. Tomorrow, the city would scrub it clean. But for tonight, the wall told the truth: there’s no line. There never was.

It wasn’t a matter of wealth, he was never in it for money. Nor was it a matter of fame, people knew him well enough already. Nor was it a matter of success, he had done many great things.

This was a matter of loss. This was a matter of coverup. This was a matter of failure.

Dr. Bridge was a man of science, a man of improvement, a man who had built a life out of caring for the safety of his employees, out of his work ethic, out of his research. Dr. Bridge was a man who made the world better, and Dr. Bridge had nearly killed someone.

“All right, it’s time. Who’s up for the trial?”

“Ladies and gentlemen,” someone spoke loudly, drawing his attention back to the elegant ballroom, “Please welcome the head of the Multiverse Experiment Committee, the man of the hour, Doctor Joseph A. Bridge!”

It was a speech they wanted, and a speech he gave. A speech of success, of humility, of wonder spilled from his lips so flawlessly that no one would notice how his words faltered as his eyes met those of the recently returned Dr. Shay, the one he nearly lost to the depths of the multiverse.

“Dr. Shay, are you ready? All right, in you go, Dmitri. I’ll check the gear.”

Nevertheless, here he stood, smiling and clapping along with the other men and women on the Committee and in the audience as Dr. Bridge completed his speech.

“Marvelous, Dr. Bridge! Just marvelous!” he was approached by a large man, one that he quickly recognized as Dr. Campbell of the Microbiology Advancement Center.

“Oh, you know me,”

“Dr. Bridge! The forces were too strong!”

“Bridge did you check the rods?”

Bridge faked a smile, “Just doing my best to make an advance.”

“And what an advance it was, indeed, Doctor.”

He turned and saw the rather elegantly dressed woman who had made the comment.

“Bridge, the rods have snapped!”

“Dr. Price, a pleasure,” he regarded her politely. He would generally make a sharp remark to his old college rival, but it had been years, and Dr. Bridge was tired. He excused himself from the scene when he saw Dr. Shay approaching.

“No, no wait—Shay, Dr. Shay can you hear me? Come through, Dmitri!”

Stepping outside, Dr. Bridge took a breath and wondered what the likelihood was that he could slip away unnoticed. Likely slim to none, but there was no sense in sticking around if it meant he would need to face the man who his own carelessness had nearly killed. There was nothing here for him, he should just go home and stay there. He should just stay away from everyone. If he stays away, no one else can get hurt, so why was he still here? What was he doing? After the ceremony, he would no longer be of any value to anyone, especially his Committee, who knew of his mistakes. Failure doesn’t deserve celebration, harm does not deserve global recognition. He should just go home and stay there.

Dr. Bridge felt as if the world was spinning, and found that it would be best for everyone, himself included, if he gave his regards to a few people and went home to deal with this heavy feeling. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he had hoped that the feeling might fade the further he got from Dr. Shay, the further he got from his near-fatal error. But, as with all things lately, luck was not on Bridge’s side.

“Please, please come through!”

Coming home from the ceremony, Dr. Bridge collapsed in bed and tried to sleep it all away. Sometimes sleeping it off is best in the case of illness, but it was no regular illness he was feeling. He is feelings were fueled by his failures, and there was nothing other than his own carelessness to blame. He would need to resign, find a new field, start a new career. He was smart enough, the possibilities were possibly limitless, but failures have limits. Failures have hard stops. Failures need to know their place among the lowest of the world. Attempted murderers should be locked up. Attempted murderers don’t deserve freedom. Attempted murderers should be kept far away from society, so that the ones who plan can’t hurt, and the ones who don’t can’t fail.

Silence.

Dr. Bridge awoke the next morning to find himself feeling nauseous, but otherwise better than the previous night. Not feeling like a proper breakfast, he grabbed a granola bar and flicked on the news before he needed to drag himself to his research seminar later in the morning.

Overall, the news was relatively uneventful. A robbery here, a new scam there, nothing too out of the ordinary, and nothing deemed special, even by the anchors themselves. Nothing, until the story covering the “Recent Breakthrough in Multidimensional Technology,” that is.

“Shay! Calens, reopen the rift!”

“I can’t! The debris of the rods knocked everything out of balance! I’ll need to reconfigure the—”

“There’s no time! Shay! Oh, Dmitri, I’m so sorry…”

He lost his appetite.

Dr. Bridge received many calls that early morning; products that he didn’t want, congratulations that he didn’t deserve, the kind of calls that can really remind one of everything that’s wrong with the world. One call, however, stood out from all the rest: a call from his dear friend and colleague, Dr. Maria Calens.

“Maria, what can I do for you?” he answered.

“Joseph, we need to talk. The café across from the university, after your seminar. Be there.”

And she hung up, giving him no choice but to oblige.

The seminar, as much as Bridge was dreading it, turned out to be just what he needed. Sure, it was a lecture for college students like any other, but that’s exactly what it was, for college students. In an environment where he wasn’t surrounded by the same air of perfection and precision as usual, he felt himself finally relax.

“But Dr. Bridge,” one student asked, post-lecture, “we don’t have experience under our belts, we can’t just do things perfectly like you can. So how will we actually get this kind of stuff down?”

“You think I do things perfectly?” he was taken aback by the statement. So much so, in fact, that we was talking before he could help it. “Well, I’d hate to disappoint, but I’ve made mistakes before too. In fact, I’ve made mistakes so careless and major that they could have been fatal.”

This fact, though it upset him gravely, got the students’ attention like magic.

“Really?” he heard several voices whisper in the background.

“It’s nothing to be proud of,” he assured them, and reminded himself, “but yes. Even those of us who look the most successful are imperfect people,” and for the first time in a long time, he believed it.

Oddly enough, walking into the café to meet his friend Dr. Calens, he felt better. Not perfect, but significantly better, knowing that his imperfections did not need to be flaws, but experiences that can be used to inform the futures of others. So when Maria greeted him at the doors, he was not unhappy to sit down with her.

“Listen, I know you’re upset,” she began, in lieu of usual small talk, “but you’ve led an advancement well beyond the depths of modern science. You’ve made a breakthrough, and if you don’t want that to be a huge deal, then fine. But it is to me, and it is to the Committee, and it is to the rest of the world, so I’m sorry if you’re beat up about Dmitri Shay, but he knew the risks and there’s always room for error so at the very least you’re allowed to shut up and take the praise and stop feeling so sorry for yourself! Dr. Shay will be here soon, so if I must, I will lock you two in a room together until you sort yourself out for good!”

It was a rant, but it was a good one.

“Maria,” he started.

“Joseph,” she mocked.

“I’m okay now, really. It’s been weeks since the trial, and if it still hurts, I shouldn’t be taking it out on you, and I’m sorry.” He was honest for once, and it felt nice.

“Oh,” said Maria. This is not what she had been expecting. “Well, good.”

“By the way,” Bridge said after a long moment, “I never did see the return.”

“The what?” she was clearly confused.

“There he is!” he spotted Dr. Shay in the doorway of the café, “He can tell me what it was like then. Dr. Shay how have you been? I was just asking Maria here about your return, you see, I wasn’t there for it and was wondering how they did manage to get you back.”

“How what?” Shay was clearly very confused, and seemed a bit hesitant to approach before sitting down at the booth.

“You know,” said Bridge, “From the other plane? How did they get you back?”

“Joseph,” Maria cut in, “Dr. Shay wasn’t on our trial committee…”

Now it was his turn to be confused.

“What? Of course you were. That’s why I want to know how you got back,” he was feeling a bit panicked now, “Back? You know, after I…” his voice dropped to a lower tone, “After I lost you to the plane?”

Silence.

“You lost my brother?”

And just as quickly as it had come together, it all fell apart.

Dan kept staring, unmoving. “Pass the salt?”

I pushed it across the table, careful not to touch his hand. The restaurant was alive with the sounds of chatter, silverware, and the occasional distressed toddler. A family place. Crayons and paper placemats. Emma had spent three minutes scribbling before resorting to kicking the table leg.

“Emma, stop,” I said, reaching under the table to still her foot.

She slumped, exaggerated. “I'm bored.”

“The food’s coming,” Dan said, smiling, but his mouth stayed tight. “Did you call the plumber about the upstairs bathroom?”

Translation: Did you call him?

I unfolded a napkin for Liam, who had somehow spilled chocolate milk in three separate places. “Left a message.”

Translation: Ended it.

Dan took a slow sip of his beer. “Huh. Funny. Kelly saw you at Riverside Café. Said you were having coffee with a guy who looked a lot like a plumber.”

My stomach twisted. Before I could answer, Jake, our nine-year-old, broke in. “Can I have the tablet?”

“No screens at dinner,” Dan and I said in unison, muscle memory.

“That wasn’t—” I started, then stopped. Emma had a spoon on her nose. “Emma, food goes in your mouth.”

“I don’t have food,” she pointed out.

I turned back to Dan, lowering my voice. “Kelly should mind her own business.”

I picked up my wine glass. My third. “And anyway, it was just... tying up loose ends.”

Dan’s laugh was sharp. “Loose ends. Right. That’s what we’re calling it now?”

“Not here,” I hissed. Jake had stopped coloring. He watched us like we were a science experiment.

“Then where, Melissa? Because you keep saying ‘later’ and ‘not now,’ and somehow—”

“My chicken nuggets better be dinosaur shaped,” Emma announced.

I grabbed the lifeline. “I don’t think they have dinosaur nuggets here, sweetie.”

“Then I don’t want them.”

“Emma,” Dan sighed. “Just eat what comes.”

“Like you’d know anything about that,” I muttered into my wine glass.

His head snapped up. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing.” Too fast. “Just that you’re picky too. About certain things.”

Liam tugged my sleeve. “Mom, I need to pee.”

I turned to Dan. “Can you take him?”

A pause. Then, “Sure. And maybe while I’m gone, you can think about whether you actually want to be at this table.” His voice was quiet, but the words landed heavy.

Emma looked up. “Daddy, why are you mad?”

“I’m not mad, princess.” His tone softened. He stood, took Liam’s hand. “Dad just needed more salt.” He glanced at me once before walking away.

Jake was still watching. Too serious. Too knowing.

“Mom?”

“Yeah?”

“Are you and Dad getting a divorce?”

The question hit, clean and simple. Emma balanced her spoon again, oblivious.

I swallowed. “Why would you ask that?”

He shrugged, still staring. “Tommy’s parents got divorced last year. They were like this before. All quiet-angry at restaurants and stuff.”

I looked past him. Dan and Liam were coming back, heads bent together, laughing.

“Your dad and I are just...” What? Fighting? Falling apart? Pretending? “...having a grown-up disagreement. But we both love you all very much.”

Jake didn’t look convinced. He went back to his placemat, shoulders slightly hunched.

The waitress appeared with our food. Too cheerful. “Who had the chicken tenders?”

Emma bounced in her seat. “Are they dinosaurs?”

They weren’t. And nothing was what anyone wanted it to be.

-

The drive home was quiet, except for the occasional turn signal clicking and the low hum of the engine. The radio was off. It had been off a lot lately.

In the back seat, Emma swung her legs, kicking the air. She was the first to break the silence. “I don’t like that restaurant.”

Liam, strapped into his booster, picked at the hem of his sweatshirt. “The nuggets weren’t dinosaurs.”

“Nope,” she agreed, voice small. “And Mommy was mad.”

Jake, staring out the window, arms crossed, sighed. “She wasn’t mad.”

Emma twisted to look at him. “Yes, she was.”

“No, she was… tired-mad,” Jake said. He glanced at Liam, who was still focused on his sweatshirt. “Like when you ask Mom something too many times, and she says ‘Because I said so,’ but her voice sounds different.”

Liam nodded. “Like the time I kept asking why the sky was blue.”

“Yeah. Like that.”

Emma frowned. “Daddy was mad, too. For real-mad.”

Jake looked at her, then at Liam. “You remember Tommy’s parents?”

Liam nodded. Emma wrinkled her nose. “They got new parents.”

Jake shook his head. “No, they just live in different places now.”

“Oh.” She was quiet for a second, then asked, “Is that gonna happen to us?”

Liam stopped picking at his sweatshirt. His little fingers curled into fists in his lap. “I don’t want new parents.”

Jake sighed again. “That’s not how it works, dummy.”

Emma huffed. “Don’t call him dummy.”

Liam stared at his lap. “But I don’t want it.”

Jake watched the dark road ahead, past Dad’s headrest. “I dunno.” His voice was flat. He didn’t like not knowing things.

Emma rested her head on Liam’s shoulder, her curls tickling his cheek. “What if we be really, really good?” she whispered.

Liam shifted, leaning into her. “Maybe that would help.”

Jake didn’t answer. He just pressed his forehead to the window and watched the streetlights blur past.

-

Mediation Room

Neutral ground. Beige walls, a too-long table, a box of tissues in the center like a dare.

Melissa sat across from Dan, arms crossed. He leaned back, jaw tight. The mediator flipped through her notes, unreadable.

“Let’s start with the basics. Current custody arrangement?”

“There isn’t one.” His voice was even, controlled.

Melissa let out a sharp breath. “Because you won’t follow one.”

Dan’s jaw twitched. “Because you want all the control.”

“They live with me.”

“Because you make it that way.”

“Because they need stability.”

“They need both of us.”

“They need someone who doesn’t cancel last minute.”

He exhaled, looking at the ceiling like patience was something he had to summon. “I was late. Once.”

She laughed, short and cold. “Once?”

“Once when it mattered.”

“It always matters.”

The mediator lifted a hand. “Schedules.”

Melissa kept her arms folded. “I have them during the week. He gets every other weekend. When he actually shows up.”

Dan’s fingers tapped against his knee. “I want more time, but she won’t budge.”

“You change your mind every five seconds.”

“Because you force me to work around your plan.”

The mediator sighed. “This isn’t about proving who’s right.”

Melissa’s voice was tight. “It’s about the kids.”

Dan didn’t look away. “Exactly.”

For a second, something softened. The weight of what had been, of what still lingered in the wreckage.

Then it was gone.

The mediator turned a page. “Let’s figure this out before a judge does.”

Melissa pressed her nails into her palms. Dan rolled his shoulders back.

The war wasn’t over.

There were two brothers. Twins. Born under the same moonlit night. They were identical in form but not in spirit, and though they shared a face, their ways could not have been more different.

Elias had a voice like velvet, soft and warm. “I love you,” he told the baker when he bought his bread. “You are a dear friend,” he murmured to the farmer as he passed his cart. “We are all one people,” he reminded the priest on Sundays, nodding as if kindness alone could keep the world from cracking.

People liked Elias. He made them feel good.

Corwin was different. His words were sharp, cut clean. “You’re a fool,” he told the baker when the man almost burned his loaves. “You’re wasting time,” he said to the farmer who kept a lame horse alive out of pity. “You have no idea what you’re talking about,” he told the priest, who only blinked in stunned silence.

People didn’t like Corwin. He made them feel bad.

But words are strange things. They can be dressed in silk or wrapped in thorns, and neither says much about the hands that hold them.

One winter, a beggar sat shivering on the steps of town hall, blue-lipped and hollow-eyed. Elias knelt beside him, placed a gentle hand on his shoulder, and whispered, “You are loved.” Then walked away.

Corwin sighed, tossed his coat at the man, and muttered, “Get off the damn ground before you freeze.”

Another day, a child tripped in the market, scraping his knee on the cobblestones. Elias knelt, cradled his face, and whispered, “You are so very precious.” Then he left him there.

Corwin grabbed the boy’s arm, yanked him to his feet, and said, “Stop crying. Here.” He handed him an apple and walked off without waiting for thanks.

One night, a house caught fire at the edge of the village. Flames curled like hungry fingers, devouring the roof beam by beam. Elias stood in the crowd, eyes glistening with sympathy. “We are all in this together,” he murmured.

Corwin cursed, ran straight into the smoke, and pulled the old man inside to safety.

In time, the villagers whispered.

“Elias is such a kind soul,” they said. “So full of love.” People basked in the comfort of his words.

“Corwin is a bitter man,” they muttered. “So full of hate.” A cruel shadow besides his golden-tongued brother.

But then the beggar, the child, and the old man stood together in the market and watched as Elias whispered something soft and sweet into a young woman’s ear.

And the beggar said, “He speaks of love but acts with indifference.”

And the child said, “He tells me I am precious but lets me starve.”

And the old man said, “He calls us one people but never lifts a hand for another.”

Then Corwin walked past, insulted someone under his breath, and dropped a coin in the beggar’s hand without even looking at him.

And the beggar, the child, and the old man said nothing at all.

Because they finally understood.

It was a bright but cold day in January. The sun shone but gave no warmth. An icy chill tore through my bones. I wrapped my coat more tightly around me. I could not wait to get home.

The street was empty save for a middle-aged, short, stout woman in front of me. She was wearing a duffel coat and ankle-length boots. On her legs were black leggings, looking almost like tights. She was walking slowly, as if immune to the biting wind.

She removed her handbag from her shoulder and opened up a wallet. Some coins fell out and a small, black-and-white photo, which blew in my direction. I gathered the coins but there was something intriguing about the photo: it was of a young man who looked exactly like my late father and I did not know this woman from Adam.

"Excuse me, madam,"I said, as I handed over the coins, but hung on to the photo. "This photo. It looks just like my late father."

She looked at me closely. I saw a muscle move in her cheek. She grabbed the photo from me and turned it around. On the back was a date in black ink: "Michael. October1965."

My father had died in September 1980. It was now January 1985. I was born in May 1966. The woman glared and snatched the photo back. She did not even thank me for returning her coins.

I began following her, my footsteps hardly making a noise. Her reaction showed that she had something to hide. Anyone else would have thanked me for having returned them their money and would not have been annoyed at me having accidentally picked up a photo.

At one stage, she turned around.

"Are you following me?"

I crossed the road and looked ahead, pretending to be interested in the view of the tower block ahead of me, but I kept looking at her out of the corner of her eye. She turned right into another street and I crossed the road, careful to leave a respectable distance between us. I did not want to frighten her but there was something strange about this. Had I not seen her in the street that day and picked up the coins that she had accidentally dropped from her wallet, I would never have seen that photo of that man resembling my late father and all would have been fine in my world.

I stood on the opposite pavement and watched her enter a terraced house. I waited for five minutes, then walked up to it. Heart thumping in my chest, I rang the bell. Some hasty footsteps followed and the door was opened by that same woman.

"You again!" she said and began closing the door. "Leave me alone."

"I have something to ask you," I persevered. "That photo. The person in that photo looks just like my late dad and I have never met you before. I want to talk to you."

She hesitated then sighed.

"All right," she said. "Come in."

She led me into a small, old fashioned room. The sparse furniture that she owned looked like something out of the late nineteenth century and there was a musty smell in the room. She beckoned me to sit down and then sat down next to me.

£What do you want?" she asked in a cold voice.

"How come that the person in your photo looks just like my late dad and, more importantly, what is it doing in your wallet? Who are you?"

She turned her gaze away from me and looked at a blank wall. I could tell that this would become an uncomfortable conversation.

"Years ago, he and I had a relationship. You are the result of that relationship."

Her last sentence felt like a brick falling on my head. A heavy silence fell in the room. A mantlepiece clock ticked, my heart thumping along with it. She turned and looked at me.

"So you are my mother."

She nodded.

"So the woman who raised me since I was a baby is not my mother."

She nodded again.

"How old were you both when I was born?"

"He was nineteen and I was eighteen."

I looked closely at her. Outside in the street, she had looked considerably older. Here, in the comfort of her own home, she looked younger and frailer. Part of me wanted to hug her, but I did not dare. There was too much to sort out first.

"So how come that I am not in your care? What was I doing raised in the home of a woman who was not my mother?"

"He always said that he would be there for me, but then he left me for someone else."

"So that someone else was the person whom I believed was my mother?"

She did not reply, but I could see that she meant "yes."

"He was married to her when you were born."

What a rat! For the first time I felt furious with my father. He had been perfect when I was little, always lifting me up in his arms and calling me his little pet. As I grew older, he would take me and my mother for exotic holidays and we would all go out for long walks in the evenings. Now, in the light of what this woman was telling me, all that was paling into insignificance. He was not trustworthy.

"But how did I end up in her care? Why would she have wanted me if I reminded her of her rotten, two-timing husband?"

"I put you in care when I had you. I could not look after you myself. His wife could not have children."

So that explained something, although I wondered whether his wife knew I was the daughter of a man who had cheated on her with another woman. Most women would not want the offspring of their cheating husbands foisted on them.

"Why did you keep his photo? Did you never try to forget him and remarry?"

She shook her head.

"He was always telling me that he would leave his wife for me, but he never did. I always hoped that he would, so I kept his photo."

She fell silent.

"I arranged for you to be put into care as a newborn and as the time passed, they tried to have children but could not, so I phoned him at work one day and told him about you and suggested that he adopt you and he did."

"Thank you," I said, drained with this information. "I'll go now."

*****

That evening, I confronted my father=s wife. She greeted me with her usual hug and kiss but I moved away.

"I have something to tell you."

She waited.

"This morning, while out for a walk, a woman dropped her wallet and a picture of my dad fell out. I could not stop looking at it."

She became very still. She did not move.

"And?" she finally said.

"This woman turned out to be my mother. I am the result of an affair that she had with Dad while he was married to you. She said that she put me into care when I was born because she was unable to look after me. I am no ordinary child that you took under your wing and raised - I am the daughter of your husband and his mistress."

She turned round and stared at me. I wish that I could take these words back.

There was a colour photograph of my late father and myself as a smiling child on the mantlepiece. I must have been about three or four. I picked it up and took it to my mother.

"Look," I said. "I have the same eye colour and light brown hair. See the resemblance?"

She looked at the photo and then back again at me. I swallowed nervously. I waited for her to say something - anything - even "Get out," but she did not. Instead, she gathered me into her arms and this time I did not try to move away, but responded warmly.

"Your dad and I were married for twenty years," she finally said. "We tried to have children but could not. When we signed up for adoption, he never told me that he already had a daughter. You look like him. You remind me of him. You are the only memory that I have of him."

I nodded. I was too shaken to speak.

"Come on," she said. "We have a lot to catch up on."

"Darling, you love comforts me like bright sunshine after a--" The scrap of paper said. It was my turn to vacuum the floors on Saturdays and right at the far end of our study table, just before it got sucked by the machine, I stooped and picked up the torn snippet. The scrawly hand wasn't mine and, in that moment, it was as if my life had been sucked by the vacuum cleaner. Who was writing Shakespearean love notes, albeit flawed, to my wife?

When Jen got home, I skipped the pleasantries and all but shoved the scrap of paper in her face.

"Oh, there it is!" She looked bewildered. "Where did you find it, love?"

"Don't love me!"

"I can explain--"

"You'd better get started then!" I stood akimbo, us barely inside the front door.

"It's not what you think."

"Then, tell me!" I demanded again.

"You know how..." She paused to think, "I decided to take up hiking again?"

"Yes, every Saturday. Five p.m."

"You remember, huh? Anyway, I met this guy--"

"What guy?" I was breathing down her face by now.

She backed up against the front door and her shoulders sank. "Well, he's part of a drama group--"

"I don't want to know what he does, ok?"

"No, I mean he asked me to join their troupe, and I did!"

"What has that got to do with this scrap, and why didn't you tell me?"

"I was about to..."

"But isn't Venus and Adonis a love poem, and not a play?"

"Yes, we're adapting several works into a collage drama, dear jealous Iago!"

Then, she punched me in the ribs and hugged me tight.

“No. No, no, no!” Sal followed the trail of crimson in the snow to her crumpled form. “Mom!” He pressed his hands against the large red stain on her garments. “Come on, not this again. Your stitches were barely healed, What were you thinking?”

Somewhat deliriously, she smiled up at the large flakes wafting from the sky. “The Winter Berries are ripe, I wanted to sell them at the market. They fetch a great price, you know.”

“I told you already that I make more than enough. I had to leave my job early because Mrs. Potter saw you stumbling through the snow.” He looked down at her feet. “For Titan’s sake, Mom! You don’t even have shoes on!”

Despite her protests that she’d not finished harvesting the berries, Sal hefted his thin mother in his arms and trekked back to their cottage outside the village. Her eyes closed as they walked, drifting off. The blood on her dress began to dry and he breathed a small sigh of relief. He could barely afford their food and rent. Another visit to the physician would officially put them into debt. If the blood was clotting, though, he could take care of it himself.

He set her down on the cot in the corner of the main room and assured himself that her breathing was even and unbothered before he stoked the fire from embers to a large blaze that nearly didn’t fit in the hearth. He was worried about her. Her sleepwalking had gotten worse in the recent months. He’d begun sleeping with his bed against the front door to prevent her from leaving the house. The stitches in her abdomen were from a nasty fall she’d taken while Sal had been at work. She claimed she’d stayed in the house all day but the baker’s daughter, Kristi, had seen her walk like one of the undead into the forest, mumbling about the angels.

The village called her crazy. Sal had fought the diagnosis at first, but as the time dragged on and she grew worse, he feared they were right. Sal worried she might become a nuisance to the town and so much so that the magistrate would order her locked in the asylum in the next city over. Nobody knew what went on in the asylum because nobody was allowed in. If they took her, she was as good as dead as far as Sal was concerned. So far, her craziness extended to mindless wandering and strange muttering about angelic creatures and demonic fiends.

Sal returned to work, and, for the next few days, things continued as normal. He worked in the coal mines, the rhythmic pounding of his pickaxe grounding, in a way. He tried to occupy his thoughts in the dark tunnels, to keep them away from his mother, but he found himself worrying anyway. She could be bleeding out in the snow again, her purple, frostbitten hands reaching for the last of the Winter Berries out in the forest.

“Sal! It’s your mother!” Sal’s fists tightened around the handle of the pickaxe, but he turned to face the newcomer in the tunnels. Kristi.

“What is it this time?”

Her face was ashen. “The magistrate has her. She came into the village shrieking about the Urslusmegalucerus and that everyone needed to leave.”

“Take me to her.” He jogged after the girl, watching her red pigtails bounce against her back. In a different life, he’d have lived in a house of his own and asked the baker to marry Kristi, but with his mother’s condition, he had no other option but to care for her. He scoffed at his mother’s ridiculous raving. The Urslumegalucerus. A fairy story to scare little kids into staying in bed at night. A great big bear with teeth like a lion and antlers like a great moose.

Sal arrived at the town meeting hall where his mother, in nothing but a nightgown and one of Sal’s coats was begging the magistrate to listen to her.

“You have to let me go! You may not believe me but Sal and I have to leave! You can’t let me stay here to share my fate with the rest of the village! It’s coming!”

“Sal!” the magistrate shouted, spotting him the second he entered. “You promised you’d keep her locked up. She’s scaring the town and disrupting the market.”

“Sal! Sal! If they don’t let me go you have to leave! It’s coming! The Urslusmegalucerus!” Her eyes were wide with fear.

Sal’s heart sank as he beheld her. What had she become? How had this happened? “No, mom, it’s not coming. Let me take you home.”

“Out of the question!” The magistrate snapped. His thick, dark eyebrows furrowed deeply. “I told you, the second she began to cause disturbance she was through. I’m having my men take her to Dernum. At the asylum, they will be able to keep her from hurting anyone, herself included.”

Sal opened his mouth to reply, but screams began to rise from outside.

“Too late.” His mother whispered, looking at her feet.

The soldiers inside the hall shared glances before they all dashed outside to see the commotion.

Something twisted in his stomach. Sal, pickaxe still in hand, grit out, “Stay here.” He wasn’t sure if he was talking to Kristi or his mother, but he hoped they both listened. He dashed outside into the street and his jaw went slack.

A bear, fifteen feet in stature at least, antlers six feet across, tore through the town. One swipe of his paw brought down the tents and awnings lining the street. Vendors ran screaming. Sal could feel bile rising in his throat as a soldier, sword in hand, charged the bear. The man was dead within seconds. The bear trampled over the body, further into the town.

His mother was right. She’d known. She wasn’t crazy. He wasn’t sure what she was, but she wasn’t a mindless lunatic. He had to get her out. As he turned to go back to the town hall, another one of the massive creatures emerged from the treeline no more than a hundred yards away.

“You have to go now!” he shouted by way of greeting. “She was right! The Urslusmegalucerus. Two of them! They’re destroying the town.”

The magistrate looked stunned. Despite being the son of a madwoman, the magistrate knew Sal was no fool. The moment he regained control of his body, he fled through the backdoor.

“Come on,” Sal said, gripping his pickaxe. They followed the path the magistrate had taken, through the back of the hall into a long corridor. They pushed open the heavy oak door at the end. Sunlight flooded the darkness. The magistrate was climbing on the back of a horse.

“Hya! Move!” he shouted, digging his heels into the side of the beast. The horse sped into a gallop.

“Come on, there’s two more horses in the stable!” Sal shouted as they jogged towards it.

Kristi leaped into action alongside Sal, saddling the horse faster than even he could. He hefted his mother into the saddle of the dappled mare that Kristi had saddled. Before Sal could offer his hand, Kristi swung herself into the saddle behind Sal’s mother.

A scream sounded from the road behind them. Sal’s head snapped towards it as an Urslusmegalucerus tackled the magistrate and the horse from the treeline. “Go!” he shouted at Kristi. “Keep away from the treeline! Don’t stop until you get to Dernum!”

She and his mother rode off, fast. Sal climbed onto the back of the black horse but didn’t follow the two women. He steered his horse to the village where the screaming didn’t stop. He likely wouldn’t make it, but if he could buy a minute, maybe two, for anyone to flee, it would be worth it. He adjusted his hands on the handle of the pickaxe and rode into the fray.

Amy sits across from the manager, who is saying words like inconsistency and team synergy and not the right fit. Her nameplate says Stephanie, but Amy has never once called her that, and she won’t start now.

“You understand, right?” the manager says, tilting her head like she’s trying to let the kindness spill out of her mouth.

Amy nods. Not because she understands but because this is the third time she’s heard some version of this speech this year, and it’s only April. The year is still wet behind the ears, still shaking off winter, and here she is, already collecting another severance check that won’t cover rent.

She wonders if she should act surprised, maybe tear up a little, make Stephanie uncomfortable. But the truth is, she already knew. The knowing always comes a week or so before—the weird, tight smiles from coworkers, the way her shifts started getting cut without an explanation. It’s like watching a wave roll in, slow at first, then all at once swallowing her whole.

“I really hope you land somewhere that values your skills.”

Amy exhales through her nose. “Me too.”

She collects her bag. There isn’t much to take—just a half-empty bottle of ibuprofen, a sticky note that says don’t forget to care in her own handwriting, and a granola bar that expired two months ago.

Outside, the air smells like wet pavement and the sharpness of spring, like something is waking up. She stands on the sidewalk, unemployed again, considering her next move. Maybe a barista gig, maybe something remote, maybe nothing at all.

Three jobs gone in four months. Maybe she’s the problem. Maybe it’s the world.

She sits down on a bench and watches people move, all of them carrying something, going somewhere. She tells herself she’s not worried. She’s been here before.

The kid plops down on the bench next to Amy like he owns the place, swinging his legs, kicking at nothing. He’s got that kind of serious look kids get when they’re about to say something either profound or completely unhinged.

“Are you sad?” he asks. No hesitation. No easing into it. Just straight for the jugular.

Amy blinks at him. “What?”

"You look sad," he says, like it’s a fact, like the sky is blue or grass is itchy. "Like my dog did when he ate that whole candy bar and got really sick and threw up all over the rug."

Amy exhales a laugh. “Wow. That bad, huh?”

He nods solemnly. “Yeah. But he was fine later. He just had to sleep it off. Maybe you need a nap too.”

Amy tilts her head. “Maybe I do.”

The kid kicks his legs some more, then turns to her, serious. “Did your mom die?”

“What? No.”

“Oh.” He looks almost disappointed, then brightens up. “Did your dad die?”

“No, both my parents are fine.”

He nods again, thinking. “Okay, so what happened?”

Amy debates telling him, but he’s already waiting, expectant. “I lost my job.”

“Oh.” He frowns. “That’s dumb.”

“Yeah.”

“Why’d they fire you? Did you steal stuff? My uncle stole a TV and went to jail.”

Amy snorts. “No. I didn’t steal anything.”

“That’s good. Jail sounds boring.” He pauses. “So why?”

Amy shrugs. “I don’t know. Guess they didn’t like me very much.”

The kid stares at her like she just said she prefers warm soda. “That’s dumb too.”

Amy sighs. “It kind of is, yeah.”

He swings his feet some more, considering. Then he says, “You should work at an ice cream shop. People are happy there.”

“I’ll think about it.”

“You could give me free ice cream.”

“I’d probably get fired again.”

He grins. “Yeah, but it’d be worth it.”

Before she can respond, a sharp voice cuts through the air.

“Lucas! What have I told you about talking to strangers?”

The kid—Lucas—sighs like he’s already tired of being eight years old. “I’m making a friend, Mom.”

The mom marches over, sunglasses on, purse clutched tight, radiating the kind of energy that makes waiters nervous. She barely glances at Amy before grabbing Lucas’s arm. “I don’t need you bothering people,” she says, emphasizing bothering like Amy is some stray dog sniffing around the good furniture.

Lucas tugs his arm free. “She’s not bothered. She’s sad.”

His mom finally looks at Amy, eyes scanning her like she’s something that needs to be wiped off a shoe. “Oh. I see.” She smiles, but not in a way that means anything good. “Well, some people bring that on themselves, don’t they?”

Amy blinks. “Excuse me?”

But the mom is already herding Lucas away. “Come on, sweetie, let’s not sit around wasting time,” she says, loud enough to make sure Amy hears.

Lucas waves over his shoulder. “Bye, ice cream lady!”

Amy waves back.

And then they’re gone, leaving Amy on the bench, jobless, slightly insulted, and apparently now an ice cream lady.

“Here,” Troy offered his cardigan from the back of his office chair.

“Thanks. It's always so cold in here.” I took it, grateful.

On my lunch, as I crossed the parking lot, I stuck my hands in my pockets. It's a self-conscious habit I have when I walk. A paper crinkled. Without thinking, I pulled it out and saw it was a yellow post-it, filled front and back with two different scrawls.

The first scrawl, in green ink:

Will you wear the black pumps? The Italian leather ones? I want you to wear them barefoot so they will really smell by the end of the night. I can't wait.

I smiled despite being kind of grossed out. A foot fetish? Eww. Then I felt bad. This was not meant for me; it's none of my business. But I am a nosy jerk and I wanted to know more so I flipped it over.

The second scrawl, in blue ink:

You are such a perv! You do know the penalty for me wearing the shoes you bought for me, right? I don't know if your balls are up to the torment I have planned. But then again, I know how you like me to hurt them. Be warned. See you tonight for your punishment.

Whoa. Okay. More fetish. Troy obviously has a work hookup. Good for him, I guess. I sheepishly put the note back into the sweater pocket.

I returned back to the office I shared with Troy. There was a stack of files waiting for me with a post-it on top. Written in that same green scrawl: Please do these first. Thx.

I immediately did a snort-laugh. The note was from our boss. Our uptight, married boss.