Page 75 of When We Are Falling

But if confronting Sylvia is what it takes to get David on track and start getting my life under control, then I have no choice. I have to do this. Taking a deep breath, I force myself to open the door and step out, dread coiling tighter inside me with every step toward that rotting front porch.

I walk up the cracked, weed-infested pathway, and the house seems to sag under the weight of its own history, as if even the walls are tired of holding in all the secrets they’ve witnessed over the years. Stopping in front of the door: its once-white paint now chipped and peeling, revealing the gray wood beneath. My hand hovers for a moment before I knock, the sound dull and hollow.

There’s no answer. I knock again, a little harder this time, but still, nothing. I’m about to turn and leave, when there’s a faint creak from inside, like the groan of an old floorboard underfoot. I freeze, my heart thudding in my chest.

“Sylvia?” I call out. “It’s Blake… Blake Taylor. I used to live here.”

For a moment, there’s only silence. Then the door creaks open just a crack, revealing a pair of dark eyes peering out at me. The door opens wider, and Sylvia steps into view. She’s so much smaller than I remember, her once-imposing frame now shrunken and frail, her hair completely white, thin and lifeless, pulled back from her face.

But the bitterness, the ugliness that seemed to radiate from her all those years ago, is still there, etched deep into the lines around her mouth and eyes. It’s as if all the nastiness inside her has finally seeped out, covering the façade she once kept firmly in place, revealing her true self to the world.

Even as I stand here, facing the twisted remnants of the woman who tormented so many of us, I find myself thinking about Ethan. His steady presence, the way he offers me unwavering support and belief, gives me the strength I need to do this, and I draw on it now, resolve hardening within.

I can almost hear Ethan’s voice in my mind, telling me I’m strong, that I don’t have to face her alone. And though he’s not here with me physically, heishere, pushing me forward, grounding me as I prepare to confront the ghosts of my past, not just for David, but for myself.

Chapter 33

Blake

For a long moment,Sylvia and I just stare at one another across the space over the doorway, the atoms rearranging themselves, time warping until I’m just a scared nine-year-old girl with her things in a plastic bag, meeting Sylvia for the first time, then folding back again, fast-forwarding to the present, me standing a little taller.

“Yes?” she says, her voice thin and rasping, like paper crumpling. Her eyes narrow as she looks me up and down, but there’s no recognition in them.

“It’s Blake,” I say again, trying to keep my voice steady. “Blake Taylor. I was one of your foster kids years ago before I was adopted by Trudy Summerton and Charlotte Harris.”

She stares at me, her expression blank, almost confused. “I’m sorry. I don’t know who you are.”

A flicker of anger flares inside me. She’s lying. I can see it in her eyes, the way they dart away from mine, refusing to hold my gaze. But I’m not here to play games. I push past her, steppinginto the house, the familiar smell of must and decay hitting me like a wave.

It’s like stepping back in time, every detail almost exactly as I remember it—the worn, threadbare carpet, the faded wallpaper peeling at the corners, the oppressive, suffocating atmosphere that always made it hard to breathe.

I walk into the living room: the old, sagging sofa is still there. My eyes drift to the corner of the room, and there it is—the spot where Sylvia used to make me stand for hours on end, staring at the wall for infractions as minor as speaking out of turn or not folding the laundry correctly.

I turn to face her, determined to see this through. “Do you remember David Rawlinson? He was one of the kids you fostered. He was here at the same time as me before I was adopted. He lived here for almost nine years before he turned eighteen.”

Sylvia’s face is a mask of confusion. “David?” she repeats, her brow furrowing. “I don’t know any David. I didn’t have foster children. I don’t really like children.”

A pang of frustration, my heart sinking. “He was here, Sylvia. Just like I was.”

She only shakes her head, her expression vacant. I’m about to push further when I hear the sound of a car pulling up outside. Footsteps cross the front yard, and a cheerful voice calls out, “Hello, Sylvia. It’s me.”

There’s a knock on the door before it swings open, and a woman in a nurse’s uniform steps inside. She’s young, with a kind face and a warm expression, though it falters slightly when she sees me standing there.

“Hey,” the nurse says gently, walking over to Sylvia and placing a hand on her arm. “It’s time for your medication, okay? I didn’t know you were expecting anyone.” She glances at me as if waiting for an explanation.

“I’m Blake Summerton. I used to live here a long time ago.”

Sylvia looks at the nurse, then back at me, her eyes darting between us in confusion.

“Why don’t you sit down for a minute,” the nurse says, leading Sylvia to the sofa.

I follow the nurse into the kitchen, where the faint smell of mildew and stale air hangs in the air. There are unwashed plates on the sink and an overflowing garbage bin. She turns to face me, holding out her hand. “Maria. You used to live here? Are you a relative?”

We shake hands. “Actually, not a relative. I was a foster kid here.”

Maria’s expression softens. “I’m sorry,” she says quietly. “I should let you know that Sylvia has Alzheimer’s. She doesn’t really remember much anymore, just bits and pieces here and there.”

“I didn’t know,” I manage to say.

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