Chapter 12
After the sentencing, life didn't return to normal for my father—because normal no longer existed.
He visited my mother every day at the psychiatric facility. She'd been moved to long-term care after her depression deepened into a catatonic state. Most days, she sat in a wheelchair by the window, staring at nothing.
But sometimes—rarely, preciously—she'd say my name.
"Elly."
Just that. Just my name. And my father would kneel beside her, take her hand, and say, "Yes, sweetheart. Elly."
One Tuesday afternoon, six months after the trial, something changed.
Dad arrived at his usual time—2 PM, right after lunch. Mom was in her usual spot by the window. But when he walked in, she turned to look at him.
Not through him. At him.
"Richard?" Her voice was rusty from disuse. "Richard, where's Elly?"
Dad froze in the doorway. For a moment, hope and agony warred on his face in equal measure. Then he crossed the room, knelt beside her chair, and took both her hands in his.
"Elly's gone, Margaret. She's been gone for a while now."
Mom's brow furrowed. "Gone where?"
"She... she passed away, sweetheart. Do you remember?"
The confusion in Mom's eyes slowly, painfully, gave way to understanding. And then to devastation. It was like watching her lose me all over again—freshly, brutally—without the mercy of gradual realization.
She screamed.
It was the same scream she'd released at the hospital morgue, the same guttural howl that had haunted me since the moment of my death. The nurses came running. Dad held her as she wailed, rocking her back and forth, his own tears falling silently into her gray hair.
I was there. I was always there. And I couldn't do a single thing.
After that day, Mom's lucid episodes became more frequent—but each one was its own fresh hell. Each time she resurfaced, she had to learn about my death all over again. Each time, the grief broke her anew.
Eventually, the doctors decided it was kinder not to tell her. When she asked for me, they simply said I was traveling. That I'd visit soon.
"When?" Mom would ask, her eyes searching the doorway. "When is Elly coming?"
"Soon, Mrs. Thornton. Very soon."
My father couldn't participate in that lie. So he stopped visiting during her lucid hours. Instead, he came at night, after she'd fallen asleep. He'd sit beside her bed in the dark, holding her hand, whispering apologies to the air.
"I failed her, Margaret. I failed our girl."
He hadn't failed me. He was the only one who'd fought for me. But guilt doesn't listen to logic—I knew that better than anyone.
Meanwhile, news reached us that Sienna's condition had worsened. Her body was rejecting the mechanical pump now too. Infection after infection. Surgery after surgery. She was deteriorating rapidly.
I felt nothing.
I thought I'd feel satisfaction. Victory. Vindication. But watching Sienna waste away in her hospital prison gave me no pleasure. It was just... emptiness. More emptiness, piled on top of the emptiness that death had already given me.
There was nothing left here for me. No vengeance to seek. No truth to uncover. No love to hold onto.
Just my parents—broken, grieving, fading.
And me, unable to help them.
He visited my mother every day at the psychiatric facility. She'd been moved to long-term care after her depression deepened into a catatonic state. Most days, she sat in a wheelchair by the window, staring at nothing.
But sometimes—rarely, preciously—she'd say my name.
"Elly."
Just that. Just my name. And my father would kneel beside her, take her hand, and say, "Yes, sweetheart. Elly."
One Tuesday afternoon, six months after the trial, something changed.
Dad arrived at his usual time—2 PM, right after lunch. Mom was in her usual spot by the window. But when he walked in, she turned to look at him.
Not through him. At him.
"Richard?" Her voice was rusty from disuse. "Richard, where's Elly?"
Dad froze in the doorway. For a moment, hope and agony warred on his face in equal measure. Then he crossed the room, knelt beside her chair, and took both her hands in his.
"Elly's gone, Margaret. She's been gone for a while now."
Mom's brow furrowed. "Gone where?"
"She... she passed away, sweetheart. Do you remember?"
The confusion in Mom's eyes slowly, painfully, gave way to understanding. And then to devastation. It was like watching her lose me all over again—freshly, brutally—without the mercy of gradual realization.
She screamed.
It was the same scream she'd released at the hospital morgue, the same guttural howl that had haunted me since the moment of my death. The nurses came running. Dad held her as she wailed, rocking her back and forth, his own tears falling silently into her gray hair.
I was there. I was always there. And I couldn't do a single thing.
After that day, Mom's lucid episodes became more frequent—but each one was its own fresh hell. Each time she resurfaced, she had to learn about my death all over again. Each time, the grief broke her anew.
Eventually, the doctors decided it was kinder not to tell her. When she asked for me, they simply said I was traveling. That I'd visit soon.
"When?" Mom would ask, her eyes searching the doorway. "When is Elly coming?"
"Soon, Mrs. Thornton. Very soon."
My father couldn't participate in that lie. So he stopped visiting during her lucid hours. Instead, he came at night, after she'd fallen asleep. He'd sit beside her bed in the dark, holding her hand, whispering apologies to the air.
"I failed her, Margaret. I failed our girl."
He hadn't failed me. He was the only one who'd fought for me. But guilt doesn't listen to logic—I knew that better than anyone.
Meanwhile, news reached us that Sienna's condition had worsened. Her body was rejecting the mechanical pump now too. Infection after infection. Surgery after surgery. She was deteriorating rapidly.
I felt nothing.
I thought I'd feel satisfaction. Victory. Vindication. But watching Sienna waste away in her hospital prison gave me no pleasure. It was just... emptiness. More emptiness, piled on top of the emptiness that death had already given me.
There was nothing left here for me. No vengeance to seek. No truth to uncover. No love to hold onto.
Just my parents—broken, grieving, fading.
And me, unable to help them.