You came home to an eerie silence, your bag slipping from your shoulder as you caught sight of Simon sitting at the kitchen table. His mask was off, his jaw tight, and his phone lay face-up on the table. The way his eyes fixed on you made your chest tighten. Something was wrong.

“Simon?” you asked cautiously.

He didn’t answer right away. His fingers drummed against the table, his body tense. Finally, he stood and held up a small photo. “Why didn’t you tell me about her?”

Your blood turned to ice. “Who?”

“Your mother,” he said flatly.

The air felt sucked out of the room. “How do you…? How do you know about her?”

“She called me,” Simon said, voice sharp. “Said she was worried about you. Told me all sorts of things about how you’ve been manipulating me, lying to me. I didn’t believe her at first. Thought she was just stirring up trouble. But then she sent me this.”

He shoved the photo into your hand, and your heart dropped. It was one of those photos—one your mother had taken years ago during one of your lowest points. Your face was red, tear-streaked, your hands visibly shaking. You remembered the day vividly. She’d used that moment to humiliate you, to remind you that you were “pathetic.”

“She said this is who you really are,” Simon continued, his voice cutting. “And honestly, looking at this, I’m starting to think she’s right.”

The words sliced through you. Your breath caught, and your voice cracked as you looked up at him. “You don’t mean that.”

“Don’t I?” he snapped, his frustration boiling over. “You’ve been hiding things from me since day one. Keeping me in the dark while dragging all this baggage around. What else haven’t you told me?”

“She’s lying!” you cried, tears blurring your vision. “She’s always lied! She’s been doing this my whole life—”

“Or maybe you’re just good at playing the victim,” Simon interrupted coldly. His words hit harder than any blow you’d ever taken.