PART 3 — My Son
The next morning, I woke up on a chair beside Lucas’ bed.
I had barely slept.
All night, I listened to his breathing.
Every time he moved, I woke up.
Every sound made me think someone was coming to take him away from me.
When he finally opened his eyes, he looked at me for several seconds.
“Are you still here?”
I smiled.
“Yes.”
“You didn’t leave.”
“No.”
He looked toward the window.
“My grandmother always said that people eventually leave.”
“Not everyone does.”
He looked at me.
“Why not?”
I didn’t know what to say.
So I told him the truth.
“Because I just found you.”
He was silent.
“Can I ask you something?”
He nodded.
“Why did you write down my name?”
Lucas looked down at his hands.
“Because Dad told me to.”
“When?”
“When I was little.”
“How little?”
“Six, I think.”
“What did he say?”
Lucas thought for a moment.
“He said: If something ever happens to you and I’m not there, you have to call Eva Van der Meer.”
My heart started beating faster.
“Why?”
He looked at me.
“Because she never left you.”
I stared at him.
“But I wasn’t there.”
“That’s what Grandma said.”
“And you believed her?”
Lucas shrugged.
“I did back then.”
He looked at me.
“But Dad didn’t believe her.”
I swallowed.
“What do you mean?”
“The door opened.”
A nurse walked in.
“How is he feeling?”
“Better,” Lucas said.
The nurse smiled.
“I’ll leave you two alone for a moment.”
When she left, Lucas looked back at me.
“My grandmother said you didn’t want me.”
“I wanted you.”
“Then why weren’t you there?”
“Because I didn’t know where you were.”
He looked at me for a long time.
“So you didn’t leave me?”
“No.”
“Really?”
“Yes.”
He wiped his eyes with his sleeve.
I took his hand.
“I’m sorry.”
“Why?”
“Because I couldn’t find you.”
He looked at the old bracelet on his wrist.
“Do you want to see it?”
I nodded.
He slowly held out his arm.
The leather was old.
Worn.
Inside, the same word was engraved:
Mom.
“Who made this?”
“Dad.”
“When?”
“When I was born.”
My heart broke.
“Why does it say Mom?”
Lucas gave a weak smile.
“He said I needed to know one day that my mother loved me.”
I couldn’t hold back my tears.
“I did.”
“I know.”
I looked at him in surprise.
“How?”
He reached under his pillow and pulled something out.
An old photograph.
My breath stopped.
It was me.
Nineteen years old.
Holding a baby in my arms.
Lucas.
“Where did you get this?”
“Dad gave it to me.”
“When?”
“A few months ago.”
“Why?”
Lucas looked down at the picture.
“Because he was sick.”
I felt a pressure in my chest.
“How long had he been sick?”
“A long time.”
“Why didn’t he call me?”
Lucas looked at me.
“He wanted to.”
“But?”
“He wasn’t allowed to.”
I froze.
“Who stopped him?”
Lucas looked toward the door.
“My grandmother.”
I stood up.
“Marianne?”
He nodded.
“She said you were dangerous.”
“Dangerous?”
“She said you only wanted me because of the money.”
I laughed in disbelief.
“Money?”
“Yes.”
I looked at my son.
“Lucas, I didn’t even know you existed.”
“I know.”
“How do you know?”
He looked at his father’s photograph.
“Dad told me everything.”
“Everything?”
Lucas didn’t answer.
He pointed toward the door.
Marianne was standing there.
For the first time in twelve years, we were face to face again.
And I immediately saw something in her eyes.
Fear.
Not guilt.
Fear.
She said only four words:
“You should never have come.”
