His Nanny Mate - Season 4 Episode 18

Logan

As Ella posed her question, the dim lighting in the bar cast shadows that seemed to stretch out indefinitely, swallowing the other patrons in a blurry distance.

The hushed jazz, an ever-present undertone, seemed to recede, leaving just the two of us in a world of our own. She waited with that unwavering look of gentle anticipation, clearly wanting the truth.

“The truth is,” I said, my finger running along the rim of my glass, “I don’t really know what happened to her.”

Ella was silent for a moment. When I glanced up at her, I saw that she was shooting me a confused look. Her head was cocked to the side, her almost-white hair, loosened from its tight bun and now cascading over her shoulders, falling into her eye.

I couldn’t decide whether she looked more beautiful now or when she was working so passionately in court. I looked away, swallowing before she could sense the heat creeping into my face.

“What do you mean?” she asked. “Was it an accident, or…?”

I shook my head. “You really want to know?” I questioned, my voice betraying a hint of vulnerability. She nodded. “Only if you’re willing to share, that is.”

A weight settled in my chest, and for a moment, I contemplated brushing it off with a light- hearted remark. But there was something about her, about the ambiance of the night, that made me think it might be time to share the heavy secret I’d carried for years.

Taking a deep breath, I said, “It was a Tuesday.”

Suddenly, the bar faded, and I was back in our old house…

The sun cast a golden hue over the neighborhood as I made my way home, the excitement of acing my math test bubbling up inside me.

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I quickened my pace, the anticipation of sharing my achievement with Mom driving me forward. Our small, cream-colored house stood proudly at the end of the lane, its windows gleaming with the sun’s reflection.

This was before the days of my father’s ‘business’ really taking off. We always had money, more money than my classmates, but our life was normal.

As I got older, I began to realize that it was my mother who kept my father in check. I often remembered overhearing arguments between them, often with her telling him that she didn’t want her sons raised thinking that they were above everyone else.

She wanted us to be normal. But as I stepped inside, an unsettling quietness greeted me. The familiar hum of the TV was missing, and the savory aroma of mom’s cooking was notably absent.

“Mom?” I called out, dropping my backpack by the door.

No reply.

With each silent second, the grip of unease tightened around my heart. I climbed the wooden stairs, their creaks sounding more pronounced in the deafening silence.

My steps grew hesitant as I approached her bedroom door. Something in me sensed that something was wrong. Seriously wrong. The hairs on the back of my neck raised, and I couldn’t explain why.

Taking a deep breath, I pushed it open. I immediately wished that I hadn’t.

The sight that met me nearly brought me to my knees. There she was, lifeless, her once radiant face devoid of the joy I so associated with her. My vision blurred, my throat constricting with a pain I had never known before.

“No… No!” My voice broke, the room spinning around me. “Mom!” I cried out, rushing to her side, hoping against hope that it was just a bad dream.

…The intensity of the memory had me practically gasping for breath, my hands trembling.

Ella’s face, mirroring her shock and empathy, brought me back to the present. “She… she took her own life,” I managed to whisper, the weight of the words feeling like a boulder on my chest. “Cut her wrists. That was the first time I realized just how much blood can be hiding away inside of a person.”

Ella’s eyes misted over. “Logan… I…”

I held up a hand, stopping her. “That’s not the end of it.”

For some reason, I felt compelled to keep talking. I had never opened up like this about my mother, or about anything for that matter, to anyone. But the need to unburden, to share the darkness that had followed, propelled me forward.

“Go on,” she murmured, leaning back a little in her chair. “I’m listening.”

I took a deep breath. “The funeral was… a haze. But what I can never forget was my father’s behavior. He seemed almost… indifferent. Cold,” Ella leaned closer, her voice soft. “That’s… that’s hard to imagine. His wife had just died.”

I chuckled bitterly. “You’re telling me.”

My fingers unconsciously traced the outline of the tiny music box in my pocket. “He sold everything that belonged to her. Everything. Except this.” I brought out the music box, its once vibrant colors now faded. It was tiny, not even the size of my palm. Its ornate design was still beautiful, even after all these years.

Opening it, a hauntingly beautiful melody filled the space between us. Ella reached out, touching the delicate engravings. “May 1?” she asked.

I nodded hesitantly, placing the little music box in her palm. I watched as she carefully turned it over in her hand, inspecting the pattern and listening to the faint song that played from its depths.

“It’s beautiful,” she murmured, lost in its music. She handed it back, our fingers brushing as I took it from her.

“It was her favorite.” I closed the lid, the final note lingering in the air. “I had to steal it from our own house, just to keep a piece of her with me.”

Ella’s eyes shimmered with tears, but it was her next question that reopened old wounds. “Why?

Why did he sell everything?”

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I clenched my jaw, the anger from years ago bubbling up.

“I don’t know. All I know is that he had money, suddenly. Lots of it. And whenever I dared to ask about Mom, about her death, he’d just say she wasn’t who she claimed to be, that she got herself in trouble’. He sold everything she used to love, sold our little house, and bought a mansion. After that, no one ever brought her up.”

The intensity in my voice had Ella leaning back, her eyes wide. “Did you ever find out what he meant by that?” she asked.

Taking a deep breath, I replied, “No. My attempts to unearth the truth were always stonewalled. Secrets, Ella. My family is a maze of them. But I guess you already knew that.”

The weight of the revelation settled over us, an unspoken bond forming from the shared pain. On impulse, Ella reached over, giving my hand a squeeze. “I’m so sorry,” she whispered, her gaze locked onto mine.

I stared at our hands, the warmth of her touch in stark contrast to the chill of the memories. For a moment, I let myself revel in the comfort it offered.

But the walls I had built over the years were not easily torn down. Pulling away, I downed the remainder of my drink.

“It was a long time ago,” I stated, my voice guarded once again. “I don’t need pity.”