A Journey from Bitterness to Truth

When Yvan walked into the hospital the next day, Matilda’s medical team had changed shifts. The attending physician caught sight of him and called out, passing him some reports with a heavy sigh. “Mr. Boyd, your wife’s condition is quite serious…”

Yvan didn’t correct the doctor about his relationship with Matilda, allowing him to continue. “She’s suffering from severe depression and appears to have been through a significant trauma. Mr. Boyd, has anything… happened between you and your wife in the past?”

Clutching the paper, Yvan’s fingers ached from the thin report’s edge. His throat felt clogged with cotton, and after a long pause, he managed to mutter, “No… nothing.”

“I see.” said the doctor, removing his glasses to clean them. “Medication alone won’t cure this. We’ve checked her records; she’s been treated before but never followed a consistent regimen. She only takes medication when she feels an episode coming on. That’s not enough for a full recovery, and she seems unwilling to engage in therapy. Mr. Boyd, this may take some time. Do you know what your wife enjoys? What makes her happy?”

That last question stumped Yvan.

What did Matilda enjoy?

He realized he had no idea.

Finding it impossible to continue the conversation, Yvan mumbled an excuse and left, the doctor’s words echoing in his mind.

“Your wife must have endured some harsh experiences. Mr. Boyd. If there’s anything you’re keeping from us, please share. It will help us tailor a better treatment plan. Her condition is quite severe. You

know, the scars on her wrists–they’re not from just one incident. They’re layers of new and old wounds. The most recent one from two weeks ago.”

Two weeks ago felt scarily recent. How many times had she harmed herself?

Matilda had been resorting to self–harm when the pressure became unbearable, alone at night

with a blade against her wrist.

Beneath her facade of pride and aloofness, the Matilda he once knew, the lady of stature from five years back, was long gone. Her spirit was shattered, leaving behind only fragments of obsession.

Yvan couldn’t bear to think further. He returned to Matilda’s hospital room and lingered at the

door, contemplating escape for the first time.

He was afraid… afraid to face this woman, his former wife–sentenced to prison by his own hands for murder.

Matilda had killed Rachel and now she lived like this. Yvan felt he should be pleased.

But seeing her, he couldn’t find joy. He felt like the real executioner, the one who had led her to

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this state.

Yvan stood at the door, pale and hesitant, ultimately unable to enter. He turned and walked down the corridor, taking out his phone.

“It’s me. Yvan.”

The tall, imposing silhouette of Yvan stood out even in the hospital, drawing covert glances from the nurses, who whispered speculations about his identity.

“Look into what happened to Matilda during her five years in prison.”

It was a painful admission, but Yvan had to confirm a suspicion, “I believe…someone may have… abused her using my name.”

Logan was picked up from preschool by Yvan that afternoon. As soon as he got into the car, he let out a sigh and said. “Mr. Boyd, you don’t have to keep me cooped up. I won’t run off. At most. I’d go back to Mommy. If you really cared, just visiting me once a month would mean a lot to

me.”

Yvan was so angered he nearly drove into the flower bed.

What kind of insolent talk was this from the kid?

Did he have no regard for his own father?

Was this really his own son?

If it weren’t for the DNA test confirming their paternity, he’d suspect Logan was someone else’s

child.

Holding back the urge to floor the accelerator, Yvan drove onto the freeway towards the hospital. “Kid, is that any way to talk to your dad?”

Logan sighed again; whether for himself or Yvan. It was unclear.

“Mr. Boyd…”

“Call me Dad!”

“Mr. Boyd, just hear me out…”

“Dad!”

“Da… Dad…” Logan stuttered over the title, clearly uncomfortable, his cheeks flushed, “Don’t…. don’t force me to call you that.”

“You’ll get used to it if you say it more.” Yvan felt a surge of satisfaction upon hearing ‘Dad‘ from the boy’s lips, his own frustration easing. “I am your dad. What’s wrong with calling me that?”

Logan retorted, “But for the first five years of my life, you never cared about me.”

Yvan took a deep breath and said, “Your mom hid you well. I only recently found out about you.” “And when Mommy was pregnant?” Logan shot back quickly. “You can’t tell me you didn’t event know about Mommy’s pregnancy.”