I find myself avoiding conversations about the upcoming family gathering.
Bracing for a confrontation with whatever truths might come to light.
The forgotten child, once taken away in secrecy, might have returned.
And I’m not sure if my mother’s secret is ready to stay buried any longer.
The tension in the manor is palpable.
Every creak of the floorboards, every rustle of the wind seems to carry a sense of foreboding.
I catch the staff exchanging glances, their whispers a constant undercurrent.
It feels as though the very walls are holding their breath.
My mother, as always, is composed.
Yet there’s a tightness around her eyes, a wariness in her movements.
