The Mother Who Forgot

The headache felt like countless needles stabbing, dense and prickly, carrying a dull, heavy ache that spread from my temples throughout my entire skull. I suddenly opened my eyes, and what greeted me was an unfamiliar ceiling—the off-white latex paint marked with faint stains, like an abstract painting that made no sense. The scent of the strange room hung around my nose, mixed with a faint dust smell and a subtle trace of disinfectant, making me feel slightly nauseous. A little boy stood by the bed, timid and slightly hunched, as if afraid to disturb something. He held half a cookie in his hand; its edges were a bit crumbled, as if it had been there for a while. His hair was soft, pressed against his forehead, with a few unruly strands hanging down, partially covering his eyes. "Mom, you're awake?" His voice was as soft as a whisper, gently drifting into my ear, tinged with uncertainty and caution, as if afraid of a negative answer. Mom? I suddenly sat up, the abrupt movement tugging at the nerves in my head, bringing a sharp pain again. I took a breath, my eyes locked tightly on his pale little face. The child looked about four or five years old, wearing a blue shirt, its collar crooked and the cuffs frayed. There was an indescribable familiarity in his brows and eyes—the slight upward tilt at the corners looked exactly like someone deep in my memory, yet it felt completely unfamiliar, sending a wave of dizziness through my heart. "Who are you?" My voice felt as dry as sandpaper scraping wood, each word strained and heavy, as if a wad of cotton was lodged in my throat—neither swallowing nor spitting it out. He drew back slightly, his small body trembling, his eyes instantly reddening like two ripe cherries, large tears welling up and about to fall. "I'm Alan, Mom. Have you forgotten again?" His voice cracked with tears, full of hurt and confusion, as if he couldn't understand why Mom didn't recognize him. At that moment, the bedroom door was kicked open with a bang; the door slammed against the wall, making the framed painting on the wall shake. Dylan Lynn stood in the doorway, dressed in a black suit, his tie perfectly knotted, accentuating his upright posture, broad shoulders, and narrow waist—still that handsome and suave figure. But his eyes were like tempered ice, so cold they sent a shiver down your spine, as if they could freeze the very air. His brows were slightly furrowed, corners of his mouth turned down, showing clear impatience. "Get up as soon as you wake up, don't waste time." He slammed a document onto the bedside table, the clash of paper breaking the room's silence. "Today is Sophia's birthday. Behave yourself and don't cause me any trouble."