Chapter 2

During the winter break of my sophomore year, I went home for the holidays.

The Christmas Eve dinner was lively; all the relatives were there.

My dad cooked a full table of dishes himself.

Relatives praised him for being capable, asking my mom where she found such a good man.

My dad stood up, glass in hand, smiling.

"Thank you all for taking care of our family these years. Especially, I want to thank Eleanor for putting up with my bad temper. Sometimes I speak too quickly, raise my voice a little, and she thinks I'm going to hit her."

He paused, a wry smile on his face: "She's been through a lot because of me."

All the relatives laughed.

I laughed too.

Uncle Mike chimed in: "Arthur, you call that a bad temper? You're so gentle with us."

Aunt Sarah agreed: "Exactly, Eleanor is just too sensitive."

My dad shook his head, looking remorseful: "It's not her fault; she's sick, you know. I just need to be more understanding."

Everyone was praising him for being generous and responsible.

My mom sat in the corner, holding a pork rib with her fork, her hand trembling.

The rib fell back onto the plate. She picked it up again, and it fell again.

Suddenly, I felt annoyed.

Everyone at the table was happy, and she was the only one with a long face.

"Eleanor, can't you just be happy? It's the holidays."

My voice wasn't quiet when I said that, and several relatives looked over.

She looked up at me.

Her lips trembled a few times, but she didn't speak.

Her eyes held an expression I couldn't place, as if she wanted to say something, but swallowed it back.

I didn't think much of it and continued eating.

That night, I was scrolling on my phone in my room when I heard a muffled thud from next door.

"Thud!" like something hit the wall.

I didn't move.

A little while later, another sound, softer this time.

I put down my phone and pushed the door open.

My mom's room door was ajar, with light spilling out.

I pushed the door open.

My dad stood by the bed, rubbing my mom's shoulder.

My mom was lying face down on the pillow, her face buried, so I couldn't see her expression.

"What's wrong?" I asked.

My dad turned to look at me, his expression very natural: "Eleanor has a stiff neck. I'm just rubbing it for her."

My mom turned her face away from the pillow and glanced at me.

I still remember that look.

It wasn't sadness, it wasn't pain, it was despair.

She opened her mouth, her lips moved, then closed again.

I stood in the doorway for a few seconds; she didn't speak.

"Well, get some sleep." I closed the door.

As I reached the stairwell, I paused.

For some reason, something felt off.

But I thought about it and decided I was overthinking.

My dad rubbing my mom's shoulder – wasn't that perfectly normal?

The next morning, I got up for a drink and saw my mom in the kitchen.

She was holding a bowl with her left hand, in a very awkward position.

I glanced at it and saw a few red marks on the back of her left hand, a bit swollen.

"What happened to your hand?"

She looked down at it, her voice calm: "Arthur hit it with a book last night."

I paused for half a second, then laughed.

"A book can cause red marks like that? Eleanor, at least make your lies more believable."

Just then, my dad came out of his study and heard us.

He walked over, looked at my mom's hand, and gave a wry smile.

"Your mom ran into the door frame yesterday. I heard a noise from my room and ran out, only to see her squatting on the floor, rubbing her hand. She doesn't remember things, sleeps it off and forgets, then thinks I hit her."

He said it so naturally, and my mom didn't contradict him.

She carried the bowl of porridge and slowly walked to the balcony, sitting on a small stool, her back to me.

I looked at her back, and that little doubt in my heart was suppressed again.

My dad patted my shoulder: "Don't take it to heart. Eleanor's illness is just like that."

I nodded.

From that day on, I never doubted her again.