My stomach tightened.
“Mom.”
“I see them,” she whispered.
The door opened.
A physician entered with the two officers.
He was probably in his fifties, with gray hair and the calm authority of someone senior.
He wasn’t Mom’s surgeon.
He introduced himself as Dr. Reeves.
But he wasn’t looking at my mother’s face.
He was staring at her wrist.
“Ma’am,” he said carefully, “where did you get that symbol?”
Symbol.
Not tattoo.
Symbol.
My mother went completely pale.
That was when I knew this wasn’t some misunderstanding.
Mom didn’t answer.
“Mom?” I asked. “What is happening?”
She looked at me.
For the first time in my life, I saw genuine fear in her eyes.
Then she looked down at her wrist.
“I knew this day would come,” she whispered.
Dr. Reeves pulled a chair closer and sat in front of her.
He gestured for security to remain near the door.
“Helen,” he said gently, “I want to explain why everyone is here. I know this must be frightening.”
