Page 97 of When the Smoke Clears

“Luke?” she responds, her voice laced with a mixture of surprise and delight. The library door swings open, revealing her standing across the threshold, phone in hand.

Her eyes light up when they meet mine, and a heaviness settles in my chest. She speaks into the phone. “I’ll have to call you back.”

She wraps one arm around my waist, resting her head gently against my chest. Her voice is soft and warm. “I’m so happy to see you.”

She steps back, her eyes scanning me from head to toe. “You’re looking much better. I can’t believe you’re driving already.”

“Nurse Isla gave me the green light.”

“Come sit,” she urges, guiding me over to the plush, cream-colored chairs in the corner of the room.

“Mom, I need to talk to you about something,” I begin, my voice steady but my mind a whirlwind of thoughts.

“Me too. “Her eyes glistening as tears threaten to spill over her cheeks.

She leans forward, the room quiet except for the faint ticking of the clock, and places her hand on mine. “I’m so sorry I wasn’t at the hospital when you needed your blood transfusion and second surgery.”

“It’s okay,” I reply softly. “Dad explained that you took a sleeping pill.”

“Your father suggested it so I could get some sleep. I had no idea you weren’t out of the woods.”

My father. Those words sting like a sudden, sharp cut, unexpected and deep.

“I’m fine, Mom.”

She collapses to her knees and places her hands on my knees, holding my gaze. “I don’t know what I’d do if anything happened to you.”

My heart softens as I look down at her, vulnerable and raw. My mother loves me fiercely. I’m aware she did what she did to protect me, to keep me shielded from the harshest truths.

But despite her intentions, it was still deceit.

She eventually pushes herself back into the armchair across from me, her eyes searching mine with a desperate, unwavering affection.

I shift in my seat, the wooden legs creak beneath me. This is not a conversation I’m looking forward to. “Mom, is there anything you need to tell me about my childhood?”

A puzzled look flickers across her face, her brow furrowing. “What?”

I stare at her face, allowing the uncomfortable silence to beg her to speak. I don’t like interrogating my own mother, but I’m owed the truth.

She shifts uncomfortably as her face reddens. “What are you getting at, Luke?”

“I know, Mom.” My words hang in the air, heavy and unyielding.

“You know what?” she presses, her eyes narrowing.

I rise from the chair and walk to the large bay windows, looking out at the garden where sunlight is streaming through the clouds and dancing across the buttercups. “Are we really going to do this?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Luke, but you’re scaring me,” she replies, her voice trembling.

“I have a different father than my siblings.” The words replay in my mind, a truth that crushes relentlessly, like waves battering the rocky bluffs.

Her reaction is instant and visceral. Her hands fly to her face, fingers trembling against her cheeks as her complexion fades to a ghostly shade of gray.

Her voice cracks like fragile glass. “Luke, that can’t be possible.”

“And yet it is,” I murmur. “There’s no way Nathaniel can be my father. The blood type test makes it impossible.”

She shakes her head slowly, her expression a mix of denial and confusion. “But that can’t be true.”