Chapter Three – The Mother’s Hand
The father moved again.
This time, he did not reach for the boy.
He merely took one step.
The mother stopped him once more.
Her fingers closed around his forearm.
Not tightly.
She did not need strength.
The look she gave him was enough.
“Let him,” she said.
Her voice was low.
The father stared at her.
“You don’t know what’s behind there.”
A pause followed.
Then she answered, “Neither do you.”
The older man looked away.
That was the first true crack in the room.
Not in the wall.
Between the adults.
The boy remained still, listening.
His father glanced toward the older man.
“Is that true?”
The older man’s face remained controlled.
“I know what was once there.”
The mother’s hand slowly left her husband’s arm.
“And now?”
“I don’t know.”
The father gave a small, bitter laugh.
“Of course you don’t.”
The boy turned toward them.
There were sentences being spoken around him, but they belonged to a history he had never been given.
The older man took a breath.
“For years, that wall was not meant to be opened.”
The boy asked, “Why?”
Again, silence.
However, this silence felt different.
The adults were no longer protecting him from an answer.
They were protecting themselves.
The mother looked at her son.
Something almost painful appeared in her face.
“Because some things were hidden before you were born.”
The boy frowned.
“Then why are they still hidden?”
Nobody had a good answer.
So he turned back to the wall.
