Part 1 of 3
I am 65 years old. I moved to the city to live with my son in my retirement. Every night at exactly 3 a.m., he takes a shower. One night, out of curiosity, I peeked in, and what I saw in that bathroom scared me so much that the very next day, I moved into a senior living facility.
Hello everyone, and welcome to the channel Solar Stories. I am 65 years old, and I moved to the city to live with my son for my retirement.
Every night at 3:00 in the morning, he would take a shower. One time, my curiosity got the better of me, and I peeked. The scene in the bathroom terrified me so much that I moved into a nursing home the very next day.
In the small town of Pine Hollow where I had lived my entire life, the late autumn wind carried the dry chill of early winter, piercing sharply into every corner of the house.
My name is Neala, and at 65 years old, I had just officially said goodbye to the chalk dust of the high school lecture hall where I had taught for decades.
This old Victorian house had witnessed almost my entire life, from an enthusiastic young teacher to a widow, and now to this old woman whose hair was strewn with the frost of time.
On the mantlepiece, a photograph of my late husband, Samuel, still stood, solemn and imposing.
Thinking of him stirred a complex feeling in my heart, a mixture of sorrow and a sense of a heavy burden lifted.
People often say to speak no ill of the dead, but the invisible scars left on my soul by his beatings and harsh rebukes could never fade.
He was a tyrannical, violent man who always treated our son and me as his private property.
The day he found out he had terminal cancer was the same day our son, Nicholas, received his acceptance letter to a great state university.
I suppressed all my grievances and resentment to care for him until he closed his eyes for the last time, not out of love, but out of duty, and to allow Nicholas to focus on his studies.
The day my husband died, I did not shed a single tear.
I only felt the weight on my shoulders suddenly lighten, and from that day on, my son and I had only each other.
I poured all my love and energy into raising him, taking on extra tutoring in addition to teaching to support his education.
From a young age, Nicholas was bright and decisive, but also had a quick temper, perhaps a trait inherited from his father.
Whenever I saw him frown and shout, an invisible fear would creep into my heart.
I tried to use all of a mother’s tenderness to correct and guide him, hoping to smooth out the sharp edges of his personality.
In the end, Nicholas did not disappoint me, graduating with honors and quickly finding a good job in a major city, eventually getting promoted to regional manager for a well known corporation.
He married a wife, a gentle and kind girl named Hazel.
At last, the heavy burden on my shoulders was lifted, and I thought that from then on I would live a comfortable, carefree life, tending to my rose bushes in the morning and taking walks with the other older ladies in town in the evening.
But life rarely goes as planned.
That day, I was busy in my garden when the phone rang, and it was Nicholas.
“Hey, Mom, what are you doing right now?”
His voice on the phone, even in a simple greeting, always carried a subtle sense of pressure.
I wiped my dirt stained hands on my apron and chuckled softly.
“I am just checking on the roses, and they are almost ready to be pruned, so is something wrong, son?”
“Mom, Hazel and I have talked it over, and I want you to get your things in order because this weekend, I am driving down to pick you up and bring you to the city to live with us.”
I froze, and the thought of leaving this place, of leaving the quiet life I knew so well, made my heart sink.
“Oh, let us not do that, son, because I am used to living here and I do not know anyone in the city, so I would not be comfortable and I would just be a bother to you and your wife.”
“What bother are you talking about, Mom?”
Nicholas’s tone held a hint of impatience.
“It is a son’s duty to take care of his mother. Besides, what if something happened to you out there all alone in the country, as who would even know?
I have already made up my mind, so please do not argue, as we have already prepared a beautiful room for you.”
His way of speaking sent a chill down my spine, as it was exactly like my late husband, but I still tried to refuse gently.
“Nicholas, honey, I know you care about me, but I am really too old to change my environment. I will not have any friends there, no garden, and I will be bored to death.”
“What do you mean by no friends, as you will come with us and Hazel can take you out shopping and show you around. Here, I will let you talk to Hazel for a minute.”
There was a moment of silence on the line, and then a clear, gentle voice came on like a fresh spring flowing through the tense atmosphere.
“Mom, it is Hazel.”
“Oh, hello, dear,” I replied, softening my tone.
“Mom, please come and live with us, as our condo is spacious and it will be so much livelier with you here.
Nicholas is always worried about your health and he cannot rest easy with you living all by yourself, so you can come here and I will take care of you, we can chat, and it will be so nice, Mom.”
Hazel’s voice had a peculiar persuasiveness, and her warmth and kindness made it impossible to refuse.
I knew this girl had a good heart, but I could still sense the compliance in her words, as the decision had been Nicholas’s and she could only obey.
I sighed, silent for a long moment, while my mind became a battlefield.
On one side was the freedom and peace I craved after so many storms, and on the other was duty, my love for my son, and the fear that if I refused, Nicholas would fly into a rage.
I was terrified of his anger, as I had lived in a hell of anger before, and I did not want to face it again.
“All right, then,” I finally surrendered, “let me pack for a few days.”
“Oh, that is wonderful, and my husband will be there this weekend to pick you up,” Hazel said, her voice filled with joy.
After we hung up, I stood silently in my vegetable garden, and over the next few days, I began to pack.
I did not have much, just a few old clothes, a faded photo album, and a couple of my favorite books.
As I flipped through the pages of the album, looking at photos of Nicholas’s bright smile as a child, my heart softened again.
Maybe I was overthinking things, as he was my son, the boy I had raised with my own two hands, and he was bringing me to live with him out of a sense of duty because he was worried about me.
“I should be happy,” I told myself.
I packed up my past, half a lifetime of memories, and prepared for a new journey, saying goodbye to my neighbors and the old friends with whom I shared morning and evening chats.
Everyone was happy for me, saying how lucky I was that my son was taking me to the city to be cared for in my old age, and I just smiled, an incomplete smile.
That weekend, Nicholas pulled up in a gleaming black luxury sedan, and seeing my son dressed in a tailored suit, looking every bit the successful man, a wave of indescribable pride washed over me.
He bustled about, helping me with my things, constantly asking if I was comfortable.
Hazel had come with him, and the warm family atmosphere temporarily swept away my worries.
“Mom, look, I bought you a few things,” Nicholas said, opening the trunk to reveal several boxes of expensive vitamins and supplements.
“Oh, you should not have spent all this money, I do not need anything,” I chided him lovingly.
“I do not lack money, Mom, just time to take care of you. I can only work with peace of mind if you are living with us,” he said, his tone sincere.
The car started, leaving the small town, the old roof, and the familiar garden behind, and on the wide highway, skyscrapers gradually rose before us like giants.
The noisy, bustling atmosphere of the city left me feeling a little overwhelmed.
Nicholas and Hazel’s condo was on the 18th floor of a high end residential building, much larger than I had imagined, with gleaming hardwood floors and luxurious furniture that spoke of expense and opulence.
Nicholas led me to a small but well equipped room with a window overlooking a lush green park.
“This is your room. I have had a TV and air conditioning installed for you, and if you need anything, just tell Hazel, so do not be a stranger.”
“It is wonderful, son, and thank you both so much,” I said.
Hazel skillfully helped me put my clothes into the closet, and this girl was always like that, constantly busy, always with a gentle smile on her face.
But I noticed that whenever Nicholas was near, her smile seemed a bit strained, and a flicker of caution and timidity would cross her eyes.
The first dinner was held in a seemingly warm atmosphere, and the meal was lavish, filled with all my favorite dishes.
“Mom, eat more, as you are too thin,” Nicholas said, placing a large piece of fish in my bowl.
“I can get it myself, you eat,” I replied.
“Hazel, are you not going to get Mom some more soup, as what are you just sitting there for?”
He turned to his wife, and his voice was not loud, but it was filled with authority.
Hazel flinched and quickly ladled some soup for me, and I saw her hand tremble slightly, but I pretended not to notice and smiled at her.
“Thank you, dear, and the soup is delicious,” I said.
Throughout the meal, it was mostly Nicholas who did the talking, as he spoke about work, about big projects, about the pressures of competition, and he spoke of his achievements without any modesty, full of self satisfaction.
Hazel and I just sat and listened, nodding occasionally.
I suddenly realized my son was no longer the little boy who needed my protection, as he had become a man of the world, a man with power, and he had brought that power home with him.
That night, lying in the unfamiliar soft bed, I tossed and turned, unable to sleep, while the sounds of the city drifted in through the window, the distant blare of car horns, and the faint murmur of people talking.
Everything was new, and everything made me uneasy.
I tried to soothe myself, thinking that everything would be fine and I just needed time to adjust.
During the first few days in my son’s luxurious condo, I thought my worries had been for nothing, and the new life was not as oppressive as I had imagined.
On the contrary, it was filled with what seemed like sincere care.
In the mornings, after Nicholas left for work, Hazel would often accompany me to the farmers market, and she would not let me carry a thing, always asking me what I felt like eating.
She listened patiently to my scattered stories about my teaching career and my old students, and occasionally, she would take me to a large shopping mall and buy me a few new outfits, despite my repeated refusals.
“Mom, that looks so elegant on you,” she would praise, her smile gentle and her eyes clear, as she told me that Nicholas would be so happy to see you in it.
Nicholas also played the part of a devoted son, and every evening when he returned from work, no matter how tired he was, he would first stop by my room to greet me.
“Mom, how are you feeling today, and do you need me to buy you more supplements?”
He bought me an electronic blood pressure monitor, instructing me carefully.
“Mom, you need to measure it twice a day, once in the morning and once at night, and have Hazel write it down in this notebook so I can check it.”
But this peace, it turned out, was just a thin veneer.
It happened on a night at the end of the month, about two weeks after I had moved in, and by then, the city had fallen asleep, with only the dim glow of street lights filtering through the window frame.
I was a light sleeper anyway, often tossing and turning until the middle of the night.
When the clock on the wall struck three dry chimes, I was suddenly jolted awake by a sound that was familiar, yet occurring at a most unusual time: a rush of water.
It was the sound of a shower coming from the main bathroom, the one right next to my bedroom, and the fierce rushing water broke the profound silence of the night.
“Who would be taking a shower at 3:00 in the morning?”
I strained my ears, but there were no other sounds, only that rhythmic, lonely rush of water.
Could Nicholas or Hazel be sick and need to sponge off?
A sliver of worry entered my heart, and I wanted to open my door to check, but I was afraid of disturbing them.
The sound of the water lasted for about 15 minutes, then stopped abruptly, and the condo fell silent again.
I could not get back to sleep that night.
The next morning at breakfast, I tried to act as natural as possible.
“Nicholas,” I said, looking at my son, “were you not feeling well last night, as around 3:00 in the morning, I heard someone taking a shower?”
Nicholas was reading the paper, his eyes never leaving the print.
“Oh, it is nothing, Mom,” he replied nonchalantly, “as this new project has been really stressful and I have been feeling antsy and restless, so I just got up to take a quick shower to cool off so I could get back to sleep.”
His explanation sounded reasonable, but just then, I saw Hazel, who was bringing a bowl of oatmeal from the kitchen, freeze for a split second, and the chopsticks in her hand almost slipped.
She quickly regained her composure, placed the oatmeal on the table, and smiled, explaining for her husband.
“Yes, Mom. He has been working so hard lately and has been tossing and turning all night, so please do not worry.”
My daughter in law’s fleeting moment of panic did not escape my notice, and as a teacher with decades of experience, I was always sensitive to unusual expressions.
Something was not right, but I did not press the matter, just quietly finished my breakfast.
I had thought it was a one time thing, but I was wrong, and two nights later, again at precisely 3 in the morning, the sound returned.
It was the same sound of a faucet being wrenched open, followed by the rushing, rhythmic flow of water.
This time, I felt an inexplicable chill.
Taking a shower in the middle of the night due to stress was believable once, but for it to be repeated at the exact same time was no longer a coincidence.
The following nights were spent waiting for that sound, and as 3:00 in the morning approached, my heart would pound.
Sometimes the water would turn on, and other times it would be terrifyingly silent, and this unpredictable anomaly became a form of mental torture for me.
My sleep became fragmented, and I was always in a state of half slumber, my ears prickled for any sound, and I began to pay closer attention to my son and daughter in law.
During the day, Nicholas went to work as usual, acting normally, but I could occasionally see traces of exhaustion and irritability in his eyes, and he was quicker to anger over small things.
I tried to gently probe my daughter in law.
“Hazel, is something wrong, as you have not been looking well lately and has Nicholas done anything to you?”
She jumped, startled, and quickly waved her hands, avoiding my gaze.
“No, nothing, Mom. I am probably just not sleeping well. Nicholas is very good to me.”
Her words and her expression were in complete contradiction, and I knew she was hiding something.
A vague fear began to form in my mind, a fear connected to Nicholas and to those three in the morning showers.
I could not bear it any longer and decided I had to have a frank talk with my son again.
I chose a time after Hazel had put the baby to bed, when it was just the two of us in the living room.
“Nicholas, sit down, as I need to talk to you,” I said, gently patting the sofa beside me.
He seemed surprised by my seriousness, but sat down.
“What is it, Mom?”
I took a deep breath, trying to keep my voice steady.
“Son, listen to me. I know you are under a lot of stress at work, but you cannot continue this habit of showering at 3:00 in the morning. I have looked it up, and that is the time of night when the body’s energy is at its lowest and the temperature is coldest, and showering at that time is very dangerous. At best, you could catch a cold, but you could also have a stroke or even suffer sudden cardiac death, and you are young, with a bright future ahead of you, so you have to learn to take care of your body.”
I said it all in one breath, filled with all of a mother’s worry, and I thought he would listen, or at least explain in more detail, but he did not.
Nicholas’s face darkened, and his usual patience vanished, replaced by undisguised irritation.
“Mom, enjoy your retirement and stop meddling in my affairs.”
The door to his bedroom slammed shut with a bang, a final, definitive declaration that cut off all my attempts to show concern.
Nicholas’s cold rejection and the slamming door were like a bucket of ice water thrown in my face, and from that day on, the atmosphere in the house was as heavy as lead.
Nicholas barely spoke to me, avoiding my gaze and treating me like I was invisible.
It was at that moment, when my focus shifted from the strange nightly sounds, that I began to pay closer attention to the other person in this silent tragedy, my daughter in law, Hazel.
One afternoon, we were chopping vegetables together in the kitchen, and as Hazel reached for a basket in an upper cabinet, the sleeve of her soft blouse slid down, revealing her fair wrist.
And what I saw was a patch of purple and blue mixed with faint yellow, clearly imprinted on her delicate skin.
The shape of the bruise was odd, not like a normal bump, but more like the mark left by five fingers gripping with immense force.
My heart skipped a beat, a feeling so familiar it was horrifying washed over me, and I quickly grabbed her hand, my voice unable to hide my alarm.
“My goodness, Hazel, your wrist, what happened to your wrist?”
Hazel jumped as if she had been electrocuted, yanking her hand back and hastily pulling down her sleeve to cover it, clearly flustered, her eyes darting around as if searching for an escape.
“It is, it is nothing, Mom,” she stammered, “yesterday I was in a hurry and accidentally bumped into the corner of my desk. My skin is just thin and bruises easily.”
She kept her head down, unable to look me in the eye.
A clumsy lie, as I had lived for nearly 70 years, and as a former victim of domestic violence, I knew all too well the difference between a bruise from a fall and a bruise from being gripped.
The marks on her wrist were the signature of an angry hand.
My heart tightened, and the shadow of my abusive husband suddenly reappeared before me, as during his fits of rage, he would grab my arm and drag me, leaving the exact same marks.
And just like Hazel now, I used to lie to neighbors and friends with absurd excuses like falling down the stairs or bumping into a door.
History was repeating itself in the most cruel way, right before my eyes in my own son’s home.
I could not bring myself to expose her lie, as I knew that once a victim chooses to hide, outside questioning only makes them retreat further into their shell of fear.
I just said softly, “You need to be more careful next time. A woman must know how to protect herself.”
Hazel just mumbled a quiet okay and then made an excuse to go to the bathroom, and I watched her slender, lonely back as she walked away, my heart aching.
My suspicions grew with each passing day, and I began to see everything through a new filter, a filter of harsh reality.
A few days later, I saw another sign, as when she woke up in the morning, she kept her head down, avoiding conversation.
When I called out to her, I saw that her eyes were red and swollen, clearly from a long night of crying.
“Hazel, what is wrong with your eyes, as I asked with concern, did you not sleep well?”
This time, she seemed prepared with another lie.
“Oh, I went out on the balcony for some fresh air last night, and a mosquito or some bug must have bitten my eyelid. It was so itchy that I rubbed it, which is why it is swollen.”
A bug on the 18th floor of a condo with screens on every window, as the lies were becoming more and more ridiculous.
And then there was the sound of the shower at 3:00 in the morning.
The memory took me back again, as after every beating, after every torment, my husband had a strange habit of rinsing himself with cold water for a long time.
As if trying to wash away his sin, to wash away the rage that had just erupted, as if the water could cleanse him of his inner demons, allowing him to wake up the next morning as if nothing had happened.
The sound of water from the bathroom came again.
This time, I did not stay in bed, and my heart was pounding so violently I could hear it in my ears.
I took a deep breath, trying to calm myself, and gently threw back the covers, my feet landing on the cold floor.
Step by step, I made my way toward the bathroom without a sound, and a lifetime as a teacher had taught me patience and caution, and I had never needed them more than at this moment.
The hallway was pitch black, with only a faint sliver of light seeping from under the bathroom door, and as I got closer, I heard more than just the water.
I heard a suppressed gasp, a faint whimper, and my son’s low, cold, threatening whisper.
“Do you dare to talk back to me again, huh?”
My feet felt as if they were nailed to the floor, and I had reached the bathroom door, and by some cruel twist of fate, it was not fully closed, with a small crack remaining, just wide enough for me to see inside.
Trembling, I braced myself against the wall and slowly brought my eye to the crack.
The scene inside crashed into my vision, and my entire body went rigid, my breathing stopped.
Under the harsh white light of the bathroom, my son Nicholas was standing there, fully dressed in his pajamas, but he was soaked to the bone.
And in front of him, under the rushing stream of cold water from the shower head, was Hazel, fully clothed in her pajamas, drenched, her long hair plastered to her pale face.
Nicholas had one hand tangled tightly in her hair, yanking her head back, forcing her to endure the icy torrent, and his face, the face of the son I had raised, now wore the same cruel and cold rage I had seen on my husband’s face countless times.
He did not shout, he just held his wife firmly, and with his other hand, he slapped her hard across her pale cheek.
A sharp crack echoed over the sound of the water, and Hazel swayed, her body going limp, but her hair was still held tight, and she did not dare to cry out loud, as only a suppressed, desperate whimper escaped her throat.
