Reading time: 10 minutes
I woke up to a white ceiling. It wasn’t the soft white of morning light—it was sterile, unforgiving. The kind that made you feel like your life had been rinsed of color. I was in an uncomfortable bed, my body heavy in a way that didn’t feel like sleep. My eyelids barely lifted. Somewhere nearby, a beeping sound kept time with my panic. Then the smell hit me—medicine. Sharp. Chemical. Hospital. I was in a hospital. “Oh no,” I thought, the words landing like a stone. “Mom probably took me here after I fainted.” The doctor came in. He didn’t look cautious. He looked relieved.
“Hello, Chloe. I’m glad to see you awake. How do you feel?”
“I’m fine.”
“Good. Before we release you, we’ll run a few tests—just to make sure everything is okay. You might be discharged this evening or tomorrow morning. We took a blood test and found some Vicodin in your system…”
His voice faded into the background. I spaced out. Because I couldn’t remember anything that followed that blank space in my mind—the moment that night turned into something else. The night I had been with Enrique. My thoughts raced, skidding over gaps like they were broken glass. I didn’t know what to do. I didn’t even know what I was supposed to feel. A sick, empty dread rose inside me. One would expect someone to be here—your parents. A loved one. Waiting, desperate, yearning for your eyes to open. Someone clinging to hope, watching for any sign that you were real again. But no one sat beside my bed, did they?
“Does my mom know about the drugs?” I asked, the question slipping out before I could stop it.
“Yes,” the doctor said. “We must inform your parents or guardians about your medical status and results.”
“Has she been visiting?”
The pause that followed said everything. “…No.”
As much as I tried not to set expectations for her, I had wanted—just for one second—that she would come. That she would look at me with anything other than irritation. Anything other than disappointment wrapped in money. But of course she didn’t. She would never truly care about me. I know she paid the hospital bill. I know she covered the cost. That’s all I am to her, isn’t it? A burden—one she pays to keep under control. The only way she knows how to care is by treating my suffering like an invoice. Emotion? That part gets ignored. Always. Not just by her—by everyone. Even my own mother.
The doctor left.
He came back and forth later, checking my vitals, running tests, recording my health like my pain could be reduced to numbers. Hours passed in the slow, suffocating way hospitals do—everything quiet except the beeping and my thoughts spiraling. Eventually, he returned with good news. “You’re okay,” he told me. “You can go home this evening.” I left the hospital. But I didn’t feel healed. I felt emptied out—numb in the way that comes after fear. I stared at the outside world like it couldn’t possibly belong to me anymore. I couldn’t picture going back to that house. Not after everything. She was angry enough to notice I’d come home late. Now she knew I’d been at a party. A party that involved illegal substances. I didn’t know how much she paid the doctor to make sure it didn’t become a bigger disaster. I didn’t know what she traded, what she smoothed over, what she bought this time. But I couldn’t handle another lecture. Not another performance of outrage. Not another wave of blame that tasted like punishment. I’d rather go back to the hospital than face her.
Then something clicked.
Who could I run to? Who would actually show up for me—without asking what it cost? I remembered the birthday gift he’d sent me. And somehow, my mouth formed a smile. It didn’t belong there. It felt wrong on my face. But it was real. A real smile, arriving too late—yet still there. It was time to visit Simon.
***
Knock. Knock.
“Hi Simon.”
“Hi, Chloe. How are you? How is home?” I hesitated. The words caught in my throat like they didn’t know how to exist. I wanted to tell him everything. The drugs. The hospital. The way my mom vanished like I was just another inconvenience. The fear I’d carried all day like it was strapped to my ribs.
But I couldn’t. No. Not yet.
“Uhmm…” I swallowed.
“Everyone is OK,” I said. Even as I spoke, I felt the lie crack between us.
“Chloe… are you sure you’re okay?” Simon’s voice softened immediately. “You don’t have to lie to me. I’m your uncle.”
Something broke in me then. The moment he said uncle, the dam gave way. Tears flooded my eyes as if my body had been holding them hostage for too long. I couldn’t stop it. I couldn’t control it. I couldn’t even pretend I was fine anymore. I started crying—hard. Shaking. Helpless. And then my legs failed. I fell to my knees in front of him, like my body understood what my mouth couldn’t say. Fear surged through me. Everything felt unbearably sad—like the world was too heavy and I was the only one trapped beneath it. My chest hurts. My head pounded. My heart was heavy, drowning in its own weight. Simon dropped to his knees too, catching me with his hands—steady, urgent.
“Hey—hey. Chloe. Look at me.” I kept sobbing, words spilling out like I was finally unburdening something I’d been swallowing for months.
“Everything is hell. Home is terrible. Dad is gone. Mom is sad and rude all the time. Adam left—he left us. He left me.” I choked on the last word.
“I don’t know how to take everything. I’m just so depressed. I’ve been looking for an escape from everything but I feel too weak even to do that—” My breath came in sharp, broken pieces.
“What even happened between Mom and Dad? How did they even get together in the first place?!”
“I know.”
“What?”
“I know what happened between them,” Simon said quietly, but with the weight of truth. “And I think it’s time you do as well.”
I still went. Flabbergasted. Wordless. My lips were shut, but my mind was loud—too many questions pressing against the inside of my skull.
Simon took a breath, then began.
***
“In 1998, your dad and I were at a youth event. We’d been through most of it—the end was coming. Then we saw her.” He paused, as if remembering the exact moment even now. “Your mother. She looked… fresh out of high school. Pretty. Flawless skin. Nice outfit. She carried herself like she belonged somewhere—like she was built to be admired.” He exhaled. “But she also looked like too much of a try-hard.”
“A try-hard?” I echoed, barely audible.
“Yes. A ‘try hard’ at being a good girl. The obedient girl. The embodiment of discipline. The kind of person people called perfect because they didn’t want to look closer.” Simon’s eyes met mine again. “And I dared your dad to go talk to her. Just a small challenge. I didn’t expect anything to come of it. But then— He approached her. They talked. And your dad—he had always been good at flirting.” He swallowed the memory like it tasted bitter. “I didn’t know how everything escalated after that. It wasn’t dramatic at first. It was just… conversations. Then other events. Then they kept showing up for each other. Soon they weren’t just acquaintances. They became good friends. But it was only friendship—because of how assertive your mother was. I’m not kidding. She was a ‘goodie two shoes.’”
“And then,” Simon continued, “it was New Year’s. The crossover to the new millennium—1999 to 2000. I don’t know how it happened. But your mom was at your dad’s place that night.” Simon let the silence stretch. When she went back home the next morning… She found her bags outside the doorstep.”
I stared at him, breath trapped.
“Your mother’s family was… complicated,” Simon said. “Her father died when she was twelve. After that, she lived with her brother—strictly. Rude. Unforgiving. And so your mother learned to be an obedient overachiever just to survive.”
A pause.
“But this one slip-up turned her world upside down. She went back to your father’s house. She took her bags and moved from one doorstep to another. So they lived together,” he said. “But not out of love. Not out of intention. Your parents were constantly frustrated by each other’s presence.”
He spoke the words like they were evidence.
“Your dad was angry because he felt like he’d been handed a responsibility he never asked for. Your mom was angry because she blamed your dad for that day—because she blamed him for taking her life apart.”
“And the cycle continued,” Simon finished.
“But… but?” I whispered. “How did they have kids?”
Simon’s face tightened, like he hated how simple the question was.
“How and why do they have kids,” he repeated, “and not just in stories—people do it. Adults do it. Emotions get tangled with choices. Love gets mistaken for pressure. And when you’re trapped in a situation you didn’t truly choose… you keep going even when you’re falling.”
He swallowed.
“As much as we like to think adulthood makes things make sense—being a young adult makes it even worse. You’re overwhelmed. You’re still learning. You end up in weird situations with nowhere safe to put your feelings.”
“In 2004,” he said, “your brother, Adam, was born.” His voice softened for a second.
“They were happy.” Then it faded again.
“But their joy didn’t last.” Simon’s jaw clenched.
“Then your father…” He didn’t have to finish the sentence. I already knew what was coming.
“Your father has anger issues.” He said it plainly. “It’s been a weakness he carried for a long time.”
“When we were kids, he used to get into fights with the neighborhood boys. Before he did anything he would regret, I would try to stop him. But with your mother, I couldn’t be there. I could only hear about it from him—or from Adam.”
“Adam?” I repeated.
“Yes. Adam always came here and told me everything when it got too much for him.”
His voice broke just slightly.
“If it weren’t for him, I would’ve been on your dad’s side—unaware of the violence and pain your household was swallowing.”
I felt sick.
“Your brother was four when it started.” Simon spoke like he was reciting something carved into stone.
“Your dad would get angry about financial issues. He always came to me to complain about money—about what your mother asked for. She wanted money for businesses,” he continued. “Small businesses. Ideas were good sometimes. But without enough capital, they couldn’t work. And when things failed—your mother blamed your dad. And your dad was angry because he felt like he couldn’t accomplish anything if he kept cashing out money without reception.” He let the silence return, heavy. “They blamed each other endlessly. For not being successful. For not building the life they thought they deserved.”
“And with every day,” Simon said, voice low and grim, “their hate grew. Their depression. Their bitterness.” He looked at me like I was the only person he wanted to protect. “I had no way to control your father,” he admitted. “I was powerless.”
His eyes held mine.
“And I’m so sorry for you. I’m sorry for Adam.” Then, quieter— “For letting you down,” he finished. “Both of you.”
“ I just wish I still had him around,” I said, the words slipping out with a mix of anger, frustration—and something quieter, softer underneath. I was sad. I missed my brother.
“What do you mean?” I heard myself ask. “Wait—what? I talk to him all the time. What do you mean he’s not home?”
“What?” I repeated, but it came out wrong—too sharp, too confused.
Then Auntie Lucy arrived, pulling up with her kids in tow.
“Oh my goodness,” she said, rushing forward. “Hi, Chloe!” She enveloped me in hugs and kisses, smothering my breath with warmth I didn’t know where to put.
I forced my face to cooperate. I had to switch from a grimace to a fake, welcoming smile. But my mind was already sprinting—circling the thought of Adam like it was burning.
“How is Mom?” Auntie Lucy kept going. “How’s the family? How’s school? And—”
She talked nonstop, and I answered the way you do when you’re trapped. Short replies. Polite smiles. Anything to keep the conversation moving while I burned with questions.
I wanted answers.
By the time she finally stopped, it was almost like she’d completed some kind of interrogation.
“Wow, time flies,” she said, glancing at her watch. “It’s getting late. You should head home soon.”
I looked at Uncle Simon for help—hopeful that he’d say something, anything. But his head was lowered, and he looked as lost as I felt.
So I gave up.
I left.
***
20:59
I walked home tired and restless, carrying confusion like it weighed something. I wanted to cry so badly, but it felt like there was a rock lodged in my throat—pushing, stretching, trying to break free and turn into tears.
I couldn’t let it.
If I did, I’d look weak. And even if no one was there to see it, I didn’t want to feel it.
“Adam…” I whispered to the empty street as I walked. “Where did you go?”
…To be continued.