I carefully lowered my voice, trying not to alarm Dylan as I asked, “Dylan, can you explain why Denise suddenly attacked you?”
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Dylan shook his head, his eyes wide with confusion.
“I don’t know.”
Persisting, I asked, “Did she seem unusual when she sneaked into the room?”
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After a moment of contemplation, Dylan answered, “I remember when Denise came in, she saw me drawing a family photo and tore it angrily. She said I didn’t take her seriously and shouldn’t have treated you as my mom.”
I found myself utterly bewildered.
Denise possessed an uncanny knack for concealing her true intentions.
Rash decisions weren’t her style. It struck me as exceedingly peculiar that she would resort to harming Dylan over a mere drawing.
I couldn’t make heads or tails of it and inquired with a hint of skepticism, “Is that all?”
Dylan paused, his gaze eventually dropping to the floor.
“In fact, when my situation went bad, it was because she tampered with my medicine. I always know she’s not my real mother. But she brought me up, so I wanted to let her go. But I didn’t expect she would be angry like that and took me as a hostage.”
Suddenly, the pieces of the puzzle clicked into place.
It all made sense now.
Dylan was smart and kind-hearted.
While Caleb and I harbored suspicions about Denise, Dylan had already pieced together the truth. Despite the way his vicious foster mother had treated him, he still harbored a desire to let her go.
He probably clung to hope for Denise until the rooftop fiasco just moments ago.
I gave Dylan’s shoulder a reassuring pat and said with genuine concern, “Dylan, you made the right choice. It’s not your fault.”
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Caleb, however, viewed the situation through a different lens. His surprise was evident as he inquired, “Dylan, you and Denise have never had a particularly close relationship for years. Is it because you’ve known all along that she isn’t your real mother?”
Dylan nodded and said, “That’s right.”
Caleb was left dumbfounded.
After a brief pause, he queried, “How did you come to realize this?”
Dylan pressed his lips together and a nostalgic smile graced his face.
He seemed to be reminiscing about a cherished memory. With a hint of embarrassment, he explained, “I used to have dreams about my mother, and there was another kind lady in those dreams. They were both strikingly beautiful and exuded gentleness. Their hair and eyes were the same color. They both felt familiar, completely unlike Denise. I couldn’t sense my mother’s unique qualities in Denise.”
Dylan’s words sent a jolt of excitement through me.
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