The Forbidden Throb Chapter 160

Daniel's POV:

The silence that followed my words was absolute.

I could hear the wind rustling through the bare trees beyond the terrace, the distant whinny of a horse from the stables, the muted hum of conversation from inside the clubhouse.

But between Nicholas and me, there was nothing but a void so complete it felt like standing at the edge of a cliff.

My brother's face had gone the color of old parchment. His mouth opened, closed, opened again—a fish drowning in air.

"What?" The word came out strangled, barely recognizable as his voice.

I didn't repeat myself. The truth, once spoken, didn't need amplification.

"Nicholas." I kept my voice level, clinical. The tone I used when delivering difficult diagnoses. "I didn't have any contact with Mother until I was six years old. That's when Grandfather finally arranged weekly video calls."

"Every Sunday at 2 PM, " I continued. The details were etched into my memory with the precision of surgical notation. "In Grandfather's study on Beacon Hill. Five minutes exactly."

The memory surfaced with unwanted clarity: sitting at Grandfather's massive mahogany desk, the professional-grade video system that ensured stable connection, Mrs. Peterson hovering nearby in case technical difficulties arose.

"From Wednesday on, I'd start preparing," I heard myself say. "Mrs. Peterson would help me write talking points on index cards in my most careful handwriting. My report card. The praise my piano teacher had given me. The books I'd finished reading."

"Saturday nights, I'd practice in front of the bathroom mirror," I continued. "Standing on that mahogany step stool so I could see myself properly. Making sure shirt collar was perfectly straight, my hair combed just right with pomade. I wanted to make her proud."

My throat felt tight. I swallowed past it.

"I'd use Grandfather's stopwatch to practice my timing. Five minutes exactly. I'd mark the index cards with colored pencils, highlighting which topics might make her smile. Which achievements might earn a response."

"Daniel—" Nicholas's voice cracked.

"I'd tell her about missing her." My hands had curled into fists at my sides. I forced them to relax. "She'd sit there with a pencil and paper, filling in sudoku puzzles. Sometimes she'd stand up abruptly and say 'I can't do this,' and the screen would just show her empty chair."

"Mrs. Peterson would pat my shoulder. 'She's having a difficult day, sweetheart."

Thewind picked up, cold enough to sting. I welcomed it.

"I read in one of Grandfather's medical statistics books that there were seven billion people in the world," I said. The memory had the distant quality of something observed rather than experienced. "I thought that if some people were born knowing how to smile, then statistically, some people must be born not knowing how. I told myself Mother was one of those people. That it wasn't personal."

Nicholas made a sound that might have been a sob.

"I wrote in my diary every night: 'I am a good boy. I am loved by Grandpa.' Over and over, in my neatest handwriting. Trying to convince myself that if she didn't love me, it was because she was incapable of it. Not because I wasn't worthy."

"Stop." Nicholas's voice was hoarse. "Please, just—

"When I was seven, the video calls stopped," I continued relentlessly. "Twelve months. Thirteen. Fourteen. Every Sunday at 2 PM, I'd still sit in that study. Dressed in my navy blazer and khaki pants. Index cards prepared. I'd wait in front of the blank screen for exactly five minutes. Then I'd put the cards away and say 'Goodbye, Mom. I love you' to my own reflection."

The silence stretched, but I couldn't stop.

A dam I'd built brick by brick over decades, now crumbling under the weight of words I'd never spoken aloud. I needed to empty it all out. Every memory. Every moment of rejection I'd carefully catalogued and buried deep.

"That Thanksgiving," I said quietly, "you were three years old. Father and Mother brought you home to Beacon Hill for the holiday. I was standing on the grand staircase, looking down into the foyer."

I could see it now as clearly as I had then. The black and white marble floor. The crystal chandelier. My mother kneeling on the Turkish carpet, her hands cupping Nicholas's small face, her expression transformed into something I'd never seen in any video call.

"She was smiling at you," I said. "Really smiling. Her eyes were full of light. She kissed your forehead. Smoothed your hair. Called you 'my sweet boy' in this voice that was—"

*Everything I'd ever wanted to hear directed at me.*

"I took two steps down the staircase. My shoes made a sound on the wood. She looked up."

The memory was a blade, sharp and clean. "Every bit of warmth drained from her face. She went white. Picked you up and walked away without saying a word. That was the moment I understood it wasn't that she couldn't smile. It was that she couldn't smile *at me*."

"That autumn, my piano teacher Ms. Chen showed me a sudoku puzzle book on her Steinway. I asked what it was—all those grids and numbers. She explained it was a logic puzzle, something people did to relax."

I paused, remembering the ice-water shock of recognition.

"The paper in Mother's hands during every video call. The pencil that never stopped moving while I talked. She wasn't listening. She was actively *not* listening. Filling in numbers so she wouldn't have to hear her son's voice."

"A few years later, when Mother was pregnant with Sophia, she recorded a series of cello lullabies as prenatal music. I found the CDs in Grandfather's study. The cover said 'For my daughter, with love—E.P.'"

I could still hear her voice between the music. Warm. Tender. Everything I'd ached for.

"She wasn't incapable of maternal love," I said softly. "She just couldn't give it to me."

Nicholas slid down. His face was wet, his expression shattered.

"I never knew," he whispered. "All this time, I thought—I was so angry at you. So jealous. I thought you had everything. Grandfather's favor. The family legacy. The perfect life."

Something in my chest twisted. "I know."

Nicholas looked up at me, eyes red-rimmed.

"I'm sorry. For being such a—such an entitled asshole. For resenting you when you were just—" His voice broke. "When you were just trying to survive."

"I didn't tell you all this to make you feel guilty," I said quietly.

He looked up at me, confused.

"I told you because I need you to understand something." I straightened, meeting his eyes directly. "I don't owe you anything. "

My voice was steady now, certain.

"Everything I hav I got it myself. Through my own work. My own effort."