Chapter 2: Mother and Daughter Confrontation
1849words
That acceptance came faster than expected. Perhaps because the pain of death was too real, or perhaps because I'd always been waiting for some explanation—a reason why I never belonged in this family, why Eleanor's eyes always held a distance I couldn't bridge. Now that distance had a terrifying answer: she wanted me dead.
St. John's Cathedral still stood solemn and majestic, but for me it had transformed into a prison. Those stained glass windows I once found beautiful now resembled prison bars, those ancient stone pillars now looked like execution scaffolds. I knew exactly when each note would sound, how every shadow would shift, what secrets lurked behind every face.
This knowledge was a curse. I knew that at the twelfth minute, a late guest would hurry into the church, footsteps echoing on stone. I knew that at the fifteenth minute, a child would begin crying and be hastily removed by an embarrassed mother. I knew that at the eighteenth minute, the organ would hit a slightly off-key note, causing the priest to imperceptibly furrow his brow.
But most importantly, I knew that at the twenty-third minute, Eleanor would take out that silver dagger, and I would die.
This time, I decided to take the initiative. As the ceremony was about to begin, I walked straight toward Eleanor. She was arranging her handbag—a classic Chanel design with black quilted leather that gleamed in the candlelight. Her movements betrayed a nervous urgency, like someone preparing for a difficult task.
"Mom, we need to talk in private."
Upon hearing my voice, Eleanor's body froze, like a suddenly immobilized statue. Her hand stopped on the zipper of her handbag, knuckles whitening from pressure. When she turned and saw the determination in my eyes, her face instantly paled, as if all blood had drained from it.
"Sarah, now is not the time. Isabella's wedding—" Her voice trembled slightly as she tried to maintain her usual air of authority, but I heard the panic beneath.
"Now is the time." I gripped her arm tightly, feeling her muscles tremble, feeling blood vessels pulse beneath her skin. Her arm was thinner than I remembered, as if fear had already begun consuming her body. "We need to talk about why you want to kill me."
This statement hit Eleanor like lightning. Her eyes widened, pupils dilating with fear. She glanced around to ensure no one was watching us—most guests were focused on Isabella walking toward the altar or engaged in quiet conversation. Then she nodded, a gesture that seemed both surrender and strange relief.
We walked out of the church to the small garden behind it—a private space prepared for the bride and her family, surrounded by high stone walls. The garden wasn't large but was exquisitely arranged, with neatly trimmed rose bushes, ancient stone benches, and a small fountain whose trickling seemed unnaturally loud in the silence.
The garden was so quiet that only distant traffic could be heard—the background noise of city life that, in this time-trapped afternoon, sounded like voices from another world. The rose bushes emitted a faint sweetness, late summer blooms with petals beginning to wither, yet their fragrance remained rich. In my heart, these beautiful flowers carried an omen of death—their red color reminded me of blood, their scent of funerals.
Eleanor sat on an ancient stone bench carved with Victorian patterns. Dappled sunlight filtering through leaves cast shifting shadows across her face, making her look old and fragile. I'd never seen her so vulnerable before; she was always perfect, strong, invincible. Now she looked like a frightened old woman.
"How did you know?" Her voice trembled, as if each word drained her strength. Her hands clasped tightly on her knees, knuckles white, as if trying to keep herself from falling apart.
"That doesn't matter." I sat opposite her, the stone's coldness seeping through silk into my skin. But this discomfort was trivial compared to the pain in my heart. "What matters is why. I am your daughter—why do you want to kill me?"
Tears welled in Eleanor's eyes, glistening in the afternoon sunlight like shattered diamonds. She looked like a broken porcelain doll—beautiful yet fractured. Her makeup began to smear, the carefully applied foundation peeling away to reveal tired, aged skin beneath.
"Because I am not your real mother."
This sentence echoed in the garden's silence like a stone thrown into still water, stirring countless ripples. I felt the world sway beneath my feet, everything I'd once been certain of beginning to collapse.
*Blood relation?* I struggled to process this information, to understand its meaning. "What are you saying?"
"Twenty-five years ago, doctors told us I couldn't have children." Eleanor's voice weakened, as if coming from far away, like someone on their deathbed speaking final words. Her gaze grew distant, recalling painful memories. "We wanted children, so we decided to adopt. We adopted Isabella first, then you two years later."
*Adopted… this explains why I've always felt like I didn't belong.* This revelation gave me a strange sense of relief, as if a long-troubling puzzle finally had an answer. I'd always felt out of place, always sensed an inexplicable distance in Eleanor's eyes. Now I knew why: we had no blood relation.
"But that's no reason to kill someone," I struggled to stay calm, though shock made my voice tremble. "Many families have adopted children. It's nothing to be ashamed of."
Eleanor withdrew a letter from her handbag—paper worn from repeated readings, edges yellowed with age. Her hand trembled as if holding a bomb. "Three years ago, your birth mother found me. She threatened to reveal this secret at Isabella's wedding, to destroy our family."
I took the letter—paper light in my hands, but its contents weighing a thousand pounds. The handwriting was elegant and determined, written with an expensive pen, the ink somewhat faded. The content was simple, but each word cut like a knife:
Dear Eleanor,
I know you adopted my daughter Sarah. For twenty-five years, I have been looking for her. Now I have found her, and I want her back. If you do not agree, I will reveal this secret at Isabella's wedding. I will tell everyone how you stole my child.
I give you a choice: either return Sarah to me, or face the consequences.
Victoria Harrison
I finished reading and felt cold fear coursing through my veins. "So you chose to kill me to keep the secret?"
"Not just a secret." Eleanor gripped my hand, her fingers corpse-cold, as if they no longer held the warmth of life. A desperate madness gleamed in her eyes. "Your birth mother is from the Harrison family. If you discovered your true identity, you would become heir to their family fortune."
*Harrison... Christopher's surname.* This revelation hit me like a physical blow. "I'm the groom's cousin?"
"If this secret were revealed, it wouldn't just ruin the wedding—it would trigger a legal battle over inheritance rights." Eleanor's eyes reflected desperation as deep as a bottomless abyss. "I cannot lose Isabella. I've already lost too much."
There was a vulnerability in her voice I'd never heard before—like a child crying. I suddenly realized Eleanor wasn't just afraid of losing me; she was terrified of losing everything she considered hers. Isabella, this family, this perfect life—all carefully constructed illusions that my true identity threatened to shatter.
Just then, Marcus appeared at the garden entrance. His expression was grim, with a coldness in his eyes I'd never seen before. This wasn't the gentle uncle from my memories—this was a stranger, a dangerous man. His suit was wrinkled, his hair disheveled, as if he'd just experienced some intense confrontation.
"Eleanor, we don't have much time. She's almost here," his voice was low, but the urgency in it made the air crackle with tension.
"Who?" I asked, though I already knew the answer.
"Your birth mother, Victoria Harrison." Marcus's voice carried a dangerous undertone, as if discussing an impending disaster. "She plans to reveal everything at the ceremony."
*So my birth mother is coming to claim me?* My heart pounded violently, blood roaring in my ears. I tried to imagine this stranger who claimed to be my real mother. What would she be like? Would she look like me? Did she truly love me, or did she just want to reclaim what she considered her property?
Eleanor withdrew the silver dagger from her bag, its blade gleaming coldly in the sunlight. It was an ancient weapon with exquisite patterns carved on the handle, resembling some ritual artifact. But now it had become a murder weapon—the tool that would soon end my life.
"Sarah, I'm truly sorry." Genuine remorse filled her voice, but also firm determination. "But I have no choice."
The moment she raised the knife, I saw the pain in her eyes. This wasn't the gaze of a cold-blooded killer but the look of a desperate mother. She loved me, but she loved her illusion more—her perfect life. To protect this perfection, she was willing to kill me.
Just then, the side door of the church opened with a sharp creak. An elegant middle-aged woman stepped out, her appearance like a dramatic stage entrance. She had eyes and chin contours similar to mine, but her temperament was entirely different—she exuded a natural aristocratic air, an unshakeable confidence.
She wore a deep blue suit, perfectly tailored and obviously expensive. Her hair was meticulously styled, every strand in its proper place. Her jewelry was sparse but exquisite—a simple pearl necklace, small diamond earrings. Her beauty had been refined by time—mature and elegant.
"Eleanor." Her voice was cold and authoritative, like a queen issuing commands. It carried a natural magnetism that compelled obedience. "Put down that knife."
I stared at this woman who was both strange and familiar, feeling something resonate in my blood. I sensed a connection beyond rationality—like returning to a mother's embrace, yet this mother was a complete stranger.
*Is this my birth mother?*
"Victoria, you shouldn't be here." Eleanor's hands trembled, the knife tip drawing unstable arcs through the air. Fear laced her voice, but also anger. "This is a private place."
"I've come to take my daughter home." Victoria's gaze fell upon me, and in that moment, I felt an emotion I'd never experienced before—the recognition of a blood connection. Tenderness filled her eyes, but also determination, like a mother protecting her child. "Sarah, I am your mother. Your real mother."
Those words echoed in the garden's silence like a declaration that changed everything. I looked at these two women—one who claimed to have raised me for twenty-five years, one who claimed to have given birth to me—both professing love, but their love was so different, so dangerous.
I realized I wasn't just trapped in a time loop; I was trapped in the war between these two women. And the stake in this war was my life.
