Chapter 559

Olivia

It had been two days since I had learned the truth about Clarissa, also known as Giselle—my mother. For those two days, I had felt as if it were all nothing but a dream.

But it wasn’t. It was real.

It was a sunny afternoon, and she was visiting again, just as she had done every day since the news had been broken. I had tried telling her stories from our shared past, but it just wasn’t enough. Nothing jogged her memory, although she enjoyed the stories.

As I watched her now, playing with the twins in their playpen, I couldn’t help but feel a sense of sadness wash over me. There was such a tender, loving look in her eyes—one that I recognized from my own childhood memories of her.

And yet, at the same time, her gaze held a kind of wistful longing, as though she could sense the missed moments and memories that her amnesia had robbed her of. Moments that she might never get back, all thanks to the actions of a few sick men.

As if reading my mind, she spoke up softly, her voice barely above a whisper.

“I wish I could remember,” she murmured, her eyes never leaving the sleeping babies. “Holding you like this when you were small, watching you grow…” A rueful smile tugged at the corners of her mouth. “I’m sure you were just as beautiful as they are.”

I felt my throat tighten as I stepped forward, laying a hand on her shoulder. “You will get that chance again,” I said, trying to inject as much confidence as I could into my words. “We’re going to figure this out, mom. I promise.”

My mother turned her head to look up at me, her eyes shimmering with a tiny bit of hope, but that hope was quickly overshadowed by doubt. “How can you be so sure?”

“Because I’m not giving up until we find a way to restore your memories,” I stated firmly. “You’ve been through so much... you deserve to have your life back. All of it.”

My mind was already racing with possibilities as I spoke. Surely, in this age of modern medicine and technology, there had to be some treatment or procedure that could undo the effects of whatever brainwashing techniques this ‘program’ had used on her.

We would explore every avenue, leave no stone unturned, until we found a solution. Not just for her, but for all of the women who had been affected.

Straightening up, I gave her shoulder a reassuring squeeze. “In the meantime... why don’t you come stay with us? Here, at the villa.”

She blinked up at me, surprised. “Oh, Olivia, I couldn’t impose—”

“You wouldn’t be imposing at all,” I insisted. “We’ve got more than enough space. Nathan’s already talking about having a separate cottage built for you on the property, but until then, you’re more than welcome to stay in our guest room for as long as you need.”

I could see the hesitation flickering across her features, that ingrained reluctance to be a burden. But after a moment, she finally gave a slow nod. “If you’re sure it wouldn’t be too much trouble…”

“Of course not.” I pulled her up into a warm embrace. “I want you to be with your family, Mom. We have so much lost time to make up for.”

She held me tightly, her cheek pressed against mine, and I could feel the dampness of her tears. “Thank you,” she whispered. “You have no idea how much this means to me.”

As we pulled apart, I brushed a stray tear from her cheek with my thumb. “Why don’t we go somewhere?” I suggested. “Just you and me. We can take a walk down memory lane... literally.” I managed a small smile. “I can show you our old house, tell you anything you want to know about our lives before…”

The hopeful light in her eyes made my heart swell. “I would love that more than anything,” she said.”

…

The house looked nothing at all like I remembered it.

Granted, it had been nearly two decades since I had last set foot on this quiet, tree-lined street in our old neighborhood. I hadn’t been able to bring myself to visit here yet, but I supposed a part of me had hoped that it would always stay the same, waiting for me.

And yet, the years had marched steadily onward, bringing with them inevitable change. As my mother and I stood there on the sidewalk, staring up at the place that had once been our home, it was almost unrecognizable.

What had once been a modest, single-story cottage with warm blue siding and a welcoming front porch was now a sleek, modern structure with straight lines and a gray facade. The porch had been enclosed, the yard re-landscaped into something minimalist and posh.

It was nice, really. But it wasn’t our home. Not anymore.

“This was it?” my mother asked, furrowing her brow. “It seems…”

I nodded, unable to mask my own disappointment. “Yeah, the new owners really went to town renovating the place.” Slipping my hands into the pockets of my jacket, I stepped up onto the driveway, my boots crunching on the freshly-laid gravel.

The black metal railing along the porch steps was the only vaguely recognizable feature left. Almost instinctively, my mother reached out and gripped it, as though trying to latch onto that solitary remnant of the past. Her gaze grew distant, pensive, as her fingers traced over the cool metal.

For a moment, I thought that she might be remembering—something, anything.

But then, she shook her head and released her grip.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “I wish I could remember more... remember this place, remember your father. You deserve to have your mother back fully, not just... whatever is left of me.”

My heart ached at her words. In that moment, I wanted nothing more than to pull her into my arms and reassure her that everything would be okay. That her value as a mother, as a person, did not hinge on whether her memories remained intact or not. She was still the woman who had brought me into this world, who had raised and loved me for the first part of my life.

That alone made her worthy of having her daughter back, regardless of what she could or could not recall.

Instead of voicing all of that, though, I simply stepped forward and took her hands in mine, holding her gaze steadily.

“Why don’t you tell me what you do remember?” I asked gently. “Start from that night when we met at Dan’s dinner party. Tell me everything... and I’ll fill in the gaps along the way, share all the stories and memories I can. That way, we can start re-building what was lost, one piece at a time.”

She studied me for a long moment, moisture glistening in the corners of her eyes. Then, giving my hands a grateful squeeze, she nodded. “Okay... I remember walking into the ballroom, and it was so crowded…”

As she began to recount that fateful meeting, I listened intently, committing every nuance and detail to memory once more. Because this, right here, was the first step towards reclaiming our history—our connection as mother and daughter.

It was the seed from which new memories could grow, ones that we would nourish together after so long apart.