Julian was reading the paper, his eyes never leaving the print.
“Oh, it’s nothing, Mom,” he replied nonchalantly. “This new project has been really stressful. I’ve been feeling antsy and restless. 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 Clara, who was bringing a bowl of oatmeal from the kitchen, freeze for a split second. 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’s been working so hard lately. He’s been tossing and turning all night. Please don’t worry.”
My daughter-in-law’s fleeting moment of panic did not escape my notice. As a teacher with decades of experience, I was always sensitive to unusual expressions. Something was not right.
But I didn’t press the matter, just quietly finished my breakfast.
I had thought it was a one-time thing, but I was wrong. 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. 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. 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. I began to pay closer attention to my son and daughter-in-law.
During the day, Julian went to work as usual, acting normally, but I could occasionally see traces of exhaustion and irritability in his eyes. He was quicker to anger over small things.
I tried to gently probe my daughter-in-law.
“Clara, is something wrong? You haven’t been looking well lately. Has Julian done anything to you?”
She jumped, startled, and quickly waved her hands, avoiding my gaze.
“No, nothing, Mom. I’m probably just not sleeping well. Julian is very good to me.”
Her words and her expression were in complete contradiction. I knew she was hiding something.
A vague fear began to form in my mind, a fear connected to Julian and to those three-in-the-morning showers. I couldn’t bear it any longer and decided I had to have a frank talk with my son again.
I chose a time after Clara had put the baby to bed, when it was just the two of us in the living room.
“Julian, sit down. 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’re under a lot of stress at work, but you cannot continue this habit of showering at 3:00 in the morning. I’ve looked it up, and that’s the time of night when the body’s energy is at its lowest and the temperature is coldest. 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. You are young, with a bright future ahead of you. 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. I thought he would listen, or at least explain in more detail, but he didn’t.
Julian’s face darkened. 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.
Julian’s cold rejection and the slamming door were like a bucket of ice water thrown in my face. From that day on, the atmosphere in the house was as heavy as lead. Julian 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, Clara.
One afternoon, we were chopping vegetables together in the kitchen. As Clara reached for a basket in an upper cabinet, the sleeve of her soft three-quarter-sleeve 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.
