The Shadows Of Susan

Her mother hands

The night air was still. So still, it felt like the whole world was holding its breath.

Susan sat on the floor beside the small mattress her mother now used. The room was dim — a single bulb hanging overhead, casting soft shadows across the walls. Outside the door, the muffled sound of the TV played, but in here, it was only the sound of her mother’s breath, raspy and uneven.

“Your hands are cold,” her mother whispered.

Susan quickly reached for the blanket, tucking it around her frail arms. “I’m okay, Mama. I’m just… thinking.”

Her mother turned her head slowly to look at her. Even sick, even tired, her eyes were still so full of light. Soft. Wise.

“You’ve been thinking too much lately, Susie.”

Susan smiled a little. Only her mother called her that.

She reached for her mother’s hand, the skin dry and paper-thin. She held it gently, as if it would break. There were so many things she wanted to say… but didn’t know how.

“I heard them again,” Susan said quietly. “In the kitchen. Stepmom was asking Daddy about the house title.”

Her mother said nothing.

“And… he didn’t even tell her to stop. He just said ‘be patient.’”

Still nothing.

Tears stung Susan’s eyes. “They’re waiting for you to die.”

Her mother’s fingers tightened slightly in hers. That tiny squeeze said everything. She knew.

“I’ve known for a while,” she said softly. “But I didn’t want to scare you.”

“I’m not scared,” Susan lied.

Her mother smiled faintly. “You’re just like me. Strong where no one sees it.”

Silence fell again.

Then her mother’s voice dropped, a whisper, almost like a secret.

“Susan… listen to me carefully.”

She reached with her free hand to the small drawer near the bed. From inside, she pulled out a faded brown envelope. Her fingers shook as she handed it over.

Susan took it, confused.

“That’s the original deed to the shop,” her mother said. “The one I bought with my own money before I married your father. Don’t show anyone. Don’t ever give it to them.”

Susan’s breath caught in her throat. “Why are you giving me this now?”

“Because I don’t know how much longer I’ll be able to protect you. And I need to know you’ll protect yourself.”

Tears slipped down Susan’s cheeks. “Don’t say that, Mama. Please don’t—”

“Sshhh,” her mother whispered, brushing her hand over Susan’s hair. “You don’t cry for me, you hear? Not in this house. Not in front of them. You keep that head high and your mouth shut… until it’s time.”

Susan nodded slowly, heart breaking.

Her mother cupped her cheek. “You’re not just beautiful, baby… you’re brilliant. That scares them. That’s why they hate you.”

Susan leaned in and rested her head on her mother’s chest. The weak thump of her heartbeat was like a lullaby, and for a moment, she let herself be a child again.

The door creaked.

Susan’s body stiffened as Anita peeked her head inside.

“You’re still awake?” Anita’s voice was coated with fake concern. “Let your mother rest, Susan. You’ll tire her out.”

“I’m fine,” her mother said quickly.

But Anita’s eyes were on the envelope in Susan’s lap.

And Susan could tell—she saw something.

Anita smiled and walked away.

But Susan’s gut twisted.

She had to hide that envelope. Tonight.