The next page contained scribbled, erased, and repeated words:
She can’t take it. Nobody can.
And below was my wedding photo, with my face smashed.
I took the diary to Etha so that he could see it.
He kept silent for a long time and then said:
When I was 10 years old, my father died in an accident. The police suspected my mother caused it, but there was not enough evidence.
She lost all faith, and since then I have stayed by her side.
“Anyone who approached me – friends, girlfriends – disappeared.”
It attracted me.
Do you think your mother is hiding something?
He agreed:
“I always felt… that my father’s death was not an accident.”
One night I decided to express it.
When Etha left, I looked for Margaret in the studio.
—You already have to control it —I said with a trembling voice.
“You saved him from the world, but you also killed him with fear.”
You don’t understand. The world took everything from me. I only kept what I had left!
—But you’re killing your son —I replied.
She approached me with a cold voice:
If you truly love him, then leave him. Because one day, you too will disappear, like his father, like all the others.
The following morning, Etha and I got ready to leave the house.
But as I left, the maid handed me an envelope.
Inside was a letter, with handwriting that seemed familiar:
Claire, please forgive me.
The accident of that time… I did not cause it.
But I let him die, because I thought he wanted to take you far away.
I just wanted to keep you safe, but now I know that safety is not prison.
“Let my son go free.”
Etha finished reading, if words.
From afar, Margaret stood next to the window, her eyes moist, but calmer than usual.
