Chapter 4 - Begging For Forgiveness At Dawn
The digital clock on the nightstand blinked 5:30 AM as gray morning light began filtering through the suburban Atlanta blinds.
I couldn't wait another minute; I slid out of bed and hurried down the hallway toward the guest bedroom where my mother was staying.
My heart pounded furiously against my ribs as I gently pushed open the heavy wooden door.
The room was neat, quiet, and smelled faintly of lavender and the expensive hand cream I had bought her weeks ago.
Mom was lying flat on her back, her face pale and drawn, her breathing shallow and raspy against the quiet morning air.
I dropped to my knees beside the bed, burying my face in the edge of the cotton blanket as fresh tears broke free.
“Mom... please wake up,” I sobbed quietly, not daring to touch her bruised and fragile body just yet.
Her eyelids fluttered open slowly, and she stared at me with dull, exhausted eyes devoid of any lingering anger or bitterness.
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“Claire?” she rasped, her voice barely audible above the hum of the air conditioner. “Is Hannah crying? Do you need me?”
“No, Hannah is sleeping,” I wept, grabbing her cold, frail hand and pressing it desperately against my cheek. “I saw the video, Mom.”
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