Chapter 4: Lines of Memory
The room was deathly silent, save for the steady ticking of the wall clock. Warm golden light bathed a beige sofa where she sat, fingers tracing the faded cover of a timeworn journal. Its creased edges whispered of past turnings, yet each line within remained untouched—like memories she could never bear to release.
She flipped to a page marked “Month Four of Pregnancy.” The words, shaky and blurred in places, still carried all the emotion:
"Today, our baby kicked for the first time… like a soft knock against my heart."
Camila smiled, eyes glistening. Years had passed, but that sensation remained vivid. The moment passed, though, replaced by a brief frown as she reached back to massage a familiar ache.
Since childbirth, spinal pain haunted her—a shadow growing heavier with time. A past accident had weakened her spine, and pregnancy had only deepened the injury. She knew she couldn’t afford weakness... or nostalgia.
A door’s soft click pulled her from the pages. A man entered—calm, courteous, his gaze gentle with concern.
“Back hurting again?” he asked quietly.
Camila nodded. He gently placed a hand on her shoulder, offering comfort.
“If it gets worse, tell me. I’ll take you to the doctor,” he said with warmth that should have felt like a home.
Without thinking, she murmured, “I saw him today… Leon Sterling…”
A silent pause filled the air.
He cleared his throat, stepping away. “Let’s talk later. I’ll get dinner ready. You rest a bit.”
She watched him disappear into the kitchen. Her heart stirred in ways she couldn’t name. When she turned back to her journal, its pages still smelled faintly of old ink, as if the past was speaking again—secrets only she could feel. Her pulse flickered, memories rising like whispers long thought gone.
A new day began.
The wind chime above the bakery door chimed softly. Camila lifted her head and saw a familiar figure—the little boy in his sky-blue backpack, bright-eyed, hopeful.
He walked up, placing a shining silver coin on the wooden counter.
“Mom, I want the same pastry as last time,” he said, grinning, revealing dimples that tightened something in Camila’s chest.
She gripped the edge of her scarf, looking down.
“Camila,” she corrected gently, voice barely above a whisper, “my name is Camila… not Mom.”
The boy tilted his head, unfazed, as if hearing the same response many times before.
“But you’re the lady in Dad’s photo. You are my mother.”
Her lips pressed tight. Her heart pounded, longing to speak, but reason stilled her voice.
She carefully placed the pastry in a box and handed it to him, pausing long enough to drink in the face—soft, distant.
“Did you come alone? Did your dad bring you?” she asked, instinctively protective, as if centuries of motherhood lay within her.
He nodded, fingers brushing the paper parcel.
“He’s always busy—even on weekends. A driver brings me here.”
His gaze fell, as if sensing an unnamed emptiness.
“But now I have a mom. A real mom.”
Camila almost choked. Each word was a tiny knife pricking her, not sharp, but relentless.
She turned to fetch a paper bag, hiding her eyes. When she returned, she spoke softer:
“Be good… eat while it’s warm. And… please don’t call me Mom anymore, okay?”
He looked up—eyes pure, without guilt or anger, only a quiet sadness even a child can feel, though can’t name.
“Okay,” he whispered, voice small and sorrowful.
But just before exiting, he looked back and smiled—a sunrise after a storm:
“Goodbye, Mama…“
The door closed behind him. Camila stood alone, surrounded by warm scents of butter and spice, but her heart froze.
She knew. Not in fleeting intuition… but in heartbreaking clarity—since the photo fell from her journal days before.
In that picture, the boy beamed, eyes bright as winter light, clutching the hand of someone off-camera—only the sleeve of a man blurred behind him.
Camila shivered.
She’d convinced herself she’d moved on. She’d told herself the boy had another life, a full family, one in which she was just a distant piece of a larger story.
But the moment he called her “Mom,” her world trembled.
That voice—so pure, so earnest—echoed in her heart like a bell she couldn’t quieten.
She shook her head. She refused. Because she feared—
The truth.
Her own emotions.
Leon.
Her own capacity for tenderness all over again.
If she accepted him, would he still look at her with that luminous trust—or would Leon take that away too, just as before? Could her current life survive the flood of past memories?
She clenched her hand against a draft drifting in from the doorway.
Yet the frostiest chill was inside her.
She couldn’t reclaim her son.
Not for lack of love.
But because she… couldn’t.
Motherhood is sacred… and fragile—too fragile for her to risk breaking again.
