Chapter 2 - The Message From The Past
I stared at my phone screen until the words stopped looking real.
Your father lied.
Four words.
Four simple words.
But they felt heavier than anything I had carried in my entire life.
My fingers tightened around the phone.
"Dad..."
My voice barely came out.
He was still standing near the bed, his shoulders lowered, his eyes fixed on the floor.
The moment he heard my voice, he knew.
He knew I had seen the message.
His face changed.
Not surprise.
Not confusion.
Fear.
A deep, painful fear that told me this was not a misunderstanding.
"Dad," I said again, holding up my phone. "Who sent this?"
He didn't answer.
I waited.
Nothing.
The silence between us became unbearable.
I looked at the screen again.
The number was unfamiliar.
No name.
No profile picture.
Just a message from a stranger claiming my father had lied about my mother.
My mother.
A woman whose memory had been carefully protected inside our family for twelve years.
A woman my father always described as the kindest person he had ever known.
A woman who died suddenly when I was twenty.
A woman whose death had always felt painful, but never suspicious.
Until now.
"Elena," my father whispered.
I looked up.
"Tell me the truth."
His eyes filled with sadness.
"I was trying to protect you."
That sentence made my chest tighten.
Everyone who hides something always says the same thing.
I'm protecting you.
I'm doing this for you.
I didn't want you to hurt.
But sometimes the truth hurt less than the lie.
"Protect me from what?"
My father sat down slowly on the edge of the bed.
He looked exhausted.
Like the secret he had been carrying had finally become too heavy.
"I don't know who sent that message."
"But you know what it's about."
He looked away.
That was enough of an answer.
I felt my stomach drop.
"Dad..."
I took a step closer.
"Is this about Mom?"
His hands gripped the edge of the mattress.
For several seconds, he said nothing.
Then he whispered:
"Yes."
The room became completely silent.
I had prepared myself for many answers.
A financial problem.
A medical issue.
Someone threatening him.
Anything.
But not this.
Not my mother.
"Why would someone send me that?"
He shook his head.
"I don't know."
"You do know."
"No."
"You do."
My voice became louder.
Not because I was angry.
Because I was scared.
"You just admitted it's about Mom."
He closed his eyes.
"Elena, please."
"No."
I stepped back.
"No, Dad. You don't get to ask me to stop now."
The words came out before I could control them.
"I came here because I thought you needed me."
His face broke.
"I do need you."
"Then stop shutting me out."
He looked at me.
And for the first time, I saw something I never expected.
Guilt.
My father looked guilty.
I slowly walked toward the dresser.
The locked drawer caught my attention.
The same drawer he looked at earlier.
The same drawer he didn't want me near.
"What is in there?"
He immediately stood up.
"Nothing."
I turned around.
"Dad."
He stopped.
I pointed at the drawer.
"That drawer has been locked since I was a teenager."
He didn't say anything.
"Why?"
His breathing became heavier.
"Because some memories should stay buried."
I stared at him.
"That doesn't sound like something innocent."
He looked hurt.
"I lost your mother."
"I know."
"No, Elena."
His voice cracked.
"You don't know everything."
Those words hit me harder than I expected.
Because I had spent twelve years believing I knew exactly what happened.
My mother had gone to work one morning.
She had a normal day.
She drove home.
She lost control of the car on a rainy road.
The accident happened.
She was gone.
That was the story.
The story my father told me.
The story everyone accepted.
But now I wondered.
Was it really the truth?
"Dad..."
I lowered my voice.
"What aren't you telling me?"
He looked toward the window.
"I made a promise."
"To who?"
He didn't answer.
"Was it Mom?"
His eyes moved back to me.
And that hesitation told me everything.
I felt a cold feeling run through my body.
"What promise?"
He sat down again.
"I promised her I would keep you away from it."
"Away from what?"
He looked at me.
"The truth."
I couldn't breathe for a moment.
"The truth about what?"
He looked older than ever.
"I can't tell you."
I almost laughed.
Not because it was funny.
Because it was unbelievable.
"You can't tell me?"
My voice shook.
"Dad, I'm thirty-two years old."
"I know."
"I'm not a child."
"I know."
"Then why are you still treating me like one?"
His eyes filled with tears.
"Because you're still my little girl."
That sentence almost broke me.
Because I knew he loved me.
That was the hardest part.
This wasn't a father who didn't care.
This was a father who cared so much that he destroyed the truth trying to protect me.
I looked down at the coat in my hands.
"Dad."
He looked up.
"Why were you hiding this under your coat?"
His expression changed.
Slowly.
Painfully.
"I didn't want you to see."
"See what?"
He looked away.
I waited.
Finally, he whispered:
"The scars."
My heart stopped.
"What scars?"
He didn't answer.
I moved closer.
"Dad..."
His hands trembled.
"I thought I could hide them forever."
My eyes moved toward his shirt.
The white fabric.
The places I hadn't noticed before.
The reason he refused to remove his coat.
I reached toward his shoulder.
He flinched.
Not from pain.
From memory.
And suddenly I understood something.
Whatever happened wasn't recent.
This wasn't something that started a few months ago.
This was something he had been hiding for years.
"Who did this to you?"
My father looked at me.
His eyes were full of sadness.
But before he could answer, there was a loud knock at the front door.
Both of us froze.
My father immediately stood up.
The fear returned.
Not confusion.
Not surprise.
Fear.
"Dad?"
He didn't move.
Another knock.
Harder this time.
Someone wasn't asking to come in.
Someone expected to be let in.
My father walked toward the bedroom door.
"Stay here."
I grabbed his arm.
"No."
"Elena."
"I am not staying here while you face whoever that is."
His face changed.
"Please."
That one word stopped me.
Because my father had never begged me for anything.
He walked slowly into the hallway.
I followed a few steps behind.
The old wooden floor creaked beneath our feet.
The knocking came again.
Three times.
Slow.
Heavy.
My father reached the front door.
His hand hovered over the handle.
Then his phone suddenly buzzed.
He looked down.
A new message appeared.
His face turned completely pale.
I stepped closer.
"Dad?"
He didn't respond.
He was staring at the screen.
"What does it say?"
His hand started shaking.
Then he slowly turned the phone toward me.
The message contained only one sentence.
"Ask your father who really caused your mother's death."
My heart dropped.
May you like
Before I could say anything, my father unlocked the door.
And standing outside was the one person I never expected to see again.
