A Journey from Bitterness to Truth

Yvan’s words left Matilda speechless. She quietly administered medicine to Logan, and then took the glass back downstairs as if nothing had happened, resuming her vigil by Logan’s bedside.

But Yvan, seeing Matilda’s silence, felt a pang of panic. It was as though Matilda was ready to leave him at any moment, and Yvan was suddenly gripped by the illusion that she had truly resolved to break away from him.

Those who really left did so without a sound. They gave up the struggle and the resistance, too weary to argue or explain, leaving nothing but a silent silhouette behind. And Matilda seemed to be in exactly that state.

Irritated, Yvan left Logan’s room, where Matilda was softly telling bedtime stories to her son, the two of them flipping through picture books in an image of serene domesticity from an outsider’s perspective.

Sometimes Yvan wondered, why did it have to be Matilda, the woman who bore his son? Why did it have to be her?

A strange feeling crossed his handsome face before he slammed the door and stormed out of the Boyd Mansion. ConTEent bel0ngs to Nôv(e)lD/rama(.)Org .

Yvan descended the stairs and called Mason, “It’s me. The leads from five years ago…we don’t have to wait for the weekend. I’m coming over tonight.”

As Matilda read fairy tales to Logan, he soon grew tired and turned his head away, closing his eyes. Sensing his resistance, she asked, “Don’t you like them?”

“No, I don’t.”

Logan’s reply was decisive and swift, “I hate these stories.”

In his young eyes, Matilda saw a loathing a loathing for the saccharine fairy tales.

“Why do adults like to write these deceitful novels? Mommy, reality is nothing like this. What’s the point of these stories?” Logan looked up, his eyes shining with defiance, “Everyone lies, and novelists are the biggest liars of all! That’s why I hate fairy tales; I don’t like them one bit!”

It was the first time Matilda felt such a strong repulsion from Logan, and it rattled her. She hurried to reassure him, “Stories are just make–believe.”

“Storytellers are liars.” Logan stubbornly repeated, “Mommy, the world we live in, it’s nothing like what they describe in their tales.”

Tears welled in Matilda’s eyes. “I’m sorry. It’s my fault, for not being able to give you the life in fairy tales.”

“I don’t want your apologies.” Logan’s eyes also brimmed with tears as he clung tightly to Matilda’s hand. “The one who should be sorry is Daddy. No, he’s not my Daddy: he’s just the son of the Boyd family!”

The child was precociously mature, only five years old but with the insight of someone much older.

Logan leaned against Matilda, “Mommy, I made myself catch a cold on purpose. I missed you so much. I want to live with you, not with Mr. Boyd.”

His own father, yet the look in his eyes was always so frightening. Logan was afraid of Yvan, more afraid than hateful.

It was a cruel irony, being terrified of his own father.

“Logan.” Matilda trembled as she stroked his face, “Let’s get you better soon, and Mommy won’t run away anymore. We’ll confront Mr. Boyd head–on and I’ll bring you back to our home; how about that?”