Elliot watched him do it and felt an icy chill spread through his veins before settling in his chest.
His family was now reduced to this. The General and himself.
Three weeks ago,the hospital room had been dim, curtains drawn against the afternoon sun. The machines beeped steadily—heart rate, oxygen levels, and an IV drip delivering medication Elliot couldn't pronounce. His mother appeared smaller than he remembered, her skin papery and pale.
She had asked his father to give them a few minutes alone. The General appeared surprised—maybe even suspicious—but he left. Standing guard outside the door like he was securing a perimeter.
"Mon chéri.”Her voice was thin, worn down by pain and medication. "Come sit."
He sat in the chair beside her bed. She reached for his hand, her grip weak and cold.
"I need to tell you something," she said. "Before—" She stopped, swallowing. "I need you to know that Iknow."
Elliot stilled.
She squeezed his hand. "I've known since you were sixteen. Maybe earlier. Mothers know these things."
He didn’t know what to say.
"I saw the way you looked at that boy—what was his name? Michael? Matthew? The one from the base in Germany." She smiled slightly. "You were so careful. So controlled. Even then. But I saw it."
All these years. She had known.
"I should have said something," she continued. "Told you it was all right. That nothing could change how much I love you." Her eyes filled. "But your father?—"
"I know."
"No. You don't." She took a breath, wincing. "He's not améchant,Eliot. Bad, you know. But he doesn’t see the world like we do." She stopped. "He loves you. In his way."
Elliot said nothing.
His mother studied his face. "You've been so good. Never disappointed him, never stepped out of line." Her grip tightened. "But you're not living,mon cœur.You're... existing."
Elliot's vision blurred. He blinked hard.
"I want you to promise me something," she said. "When I'm gone—I want you to liveyourlife. Not his. Yours. Do you understand?"
"Maman—"
"Promets-le-moi,Eliot."
"I promise."
She smiled, tears on her cheeks. "There's someone, isn't there? Someone you care about?"
His breath caught. "Maybe.”
"Don’t wait too long." Her fingers stroked the top of his hand. "My only regret is waiting."
"Maman—"
"I’m tired of waiting,Eliot. Promise me you won’t."
She died six days later.
The reception was heldat the officers' club. People stood in small clusters talking in hushed tones. White tablecloths draped over tables, plates with finger foods and drinks scattered across them. The bar was doing steady business for a Monday afternoon.
Elliot moved through the room on autopilot, accepting more condolences and sympathies, more well-meaning comments about what a remarkable woman his mother had been.
