After a few minutes I realize I can’t hear their voices. I can see them, both of them, lips moving, heads nodding, tears flowing, but whatever they’re saying is floating around the room, landing everywhere but in my ears. All I can hear is me asking myself, why did I come here? What am I planning to do? Is Danny the killer?

Eventually Danny shakes me, then tells me that he and Dad are going to the coffee room to give me time on my own with Mom. Time for what, Danny? But I say nothing, watching as they drag themselves from the room. I haven’t looked at her yet.

Slowly I let my eyes travel from her feet up to her face. Her shrunken, unrecognizable face. Her eyes are closed. Short wisps of breath leave her mouth every few seconds, the only sign that life is still clinging on. Her hand is resting on top of the sheet where Dad must have been holding it. Not really knowing why, I put her hand in mine and feel her cold waxy skin against my own. Then I squeeze it, this hand, the hand that fed me, bathed me, brushed my hair. The hand that wiped my tears, soothed my pains. The hand that took me.

I pull my hand away for a moment, breathing heavily, sweat gathering on my skin. What am I doing here? This woman abducted me. I want to leave, run away.

I look at her face again and this time I imagine the smile, the one that greeted me every morning, those big blue eyes. I feel the heat that wrapped itself around my body with every hug. I hear her soft voice whispering that she loves me – hear her singing, laughing, dancing. Why do I still love her?

Suddenly I know why I’m here. I came to tell her that I know.

The cross on the bedside locker is flickering in the light of the candle. Jesus, hangs here, hands and feet nailed. I feel like that. Like someone is torturing me. I look at his face, the calm face, forgiving us our sins. Then I look at Mom’s. Did she know what she was doing, or was she so distraught from the death of her baby that she just panicked? Was it too late afterwards to admit what she had done? Everything had fallen into place nicely, with Dad being away. She probably sent him photos of me during the year, so I’d look familiar when he returned. Did she spend night after night lying in her bed, sleepless, imagining that knock on the door, the knock that never came?