Chapter 2 - The Things She Had Been Hiding
At the urgent care clinic, Noah clung to Daniel while I filled out paperwork with shaking hands.
Thankfully, the physician believed Noah would be fine.
His mouth and throat were irritated, but there was no evidence of a severe reaction.
Daniel needed several stitches near his hairline.
I should have felt relieved.
Instead, guilt settled deeper into my chest.
Because while the doctor examined my family, I kept thinking about Mom's final sentence.
I've been seeing things wrong for weeks.
She had known.
Maybe not exactly what was happening.
But she had known something was wrong.
And I had known too.
Neither of us had wanted to say it.
That evening, after Noah finally fell asleep between Daniel and me, I whispered, “I should have stopped this sooner.”
Daniel stared at the ceiling.
“You couldn't know she'd do this.”
“I knew something was wrong.”
“So did I.”
I turned toward him.
“You tried to tell me.”
He didn't answer.
That hurt because it was true.
A month earlier, Daniel had asked whether Mom should still babysit.
I accused him of overreacting.
“She raised me,” I'd said.
He replied, “That doesn't mean she's exactly the same person she was thirty years ago.”
I had become furious.
Now I understood why.
The next morning, Mom didn't answer her phone.
By noon, I had called eleven times.
At one, I drove to her house.
Her car was gone.
So was she.
On the kitchen counter sat a handwritten note.
Only five words.
I don't need your permission.
Beside it was a photograph of me at six years old sitting on her lap.
I called Daniel.
“She left.”
“What do you mean?”
“Her car's gone.”
“Sarah, call the police.”
“She'll hate me.”
There was a pause.
Then Daniel said gently, “Your mother may not be able to see colors correctly, may be confused about objects, and just injured two people. This isn't about whether she gets angry.”
I closed my eyes.
He was right.
Again.
Twenty minutes later, I made the call.
And then I found something in Mom's bedroom that turned my fear into panic.
On her nightstand was an appointment card.
Neurology.
The appointment had been three months earlier.
Underneath it was another paper.
A referral for additional testing.
Across the top, in Mom's handwriting, were three words:
DO NOT TELL SARAH.
My hands began trembling.
Mom hadn't merely suspected something was wrong.
She had already seen a doctor.
And whatever that doctor had told her had frightened her enough to hide it from all of us.
Then my phone rang.
Unknown number.
“Hello?”
“Is this Sarah Carter?”
“Yes.”
“This is Officer Ramirez. We may have located your mother.”
“Is she okay?”
There was a pause.
“We need you to come down here.”
My heart stopped.
“Where?”
He gave me an address.
I knew it immediately.
It was nowhere near Mom's house.
It was almost forty miles away.
“What was she doing there?”
Another pause.
“Mrs. Carter insists she was driving to pick up her daughter from elementary school.”
I couldn't breathe.
Because the elementary school she had named was mine.
The school I had attended nearly thirty years ago.
May you like
And Mom apparently believed I was still waiting there.
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