Doubting You

Doubting You

–S.G.Julen-

3/17/2026

“Dubita della mia morte. Prendi un treno,” a woman's soft voice whispered into the darkness of my mind. My mother’s voice.

Those were the last words she spoke to me. The last words I heard before I knew my mother was gone–they also happen to be the reason that I'm struggling so hard to study right now. I’m in my senior year, and in order to get my dream job (which includes travelling the world), I have to take as many language classes as I can. Italian was the only one available for me to take, which really sucks because it’s the same one that my mother studied.

Thankfully, my dad is at work right now–if he was here and saw my tears, then I'm afraid that I wouldn't have been able to hold the rest back. I quickly attempted to compose myself and get back to my work, though my composure wasn't very strong.

“Doubt…” I mumbled to myself, as I contemplated how I could possibly say this in Italian. I knew what the word started with and knew it also included the letter ‘t’–I just didn’t know how.

“Doubt.” I whisper to myself again, begging the universe for some familiarity in this word. Slowly a word began to form and soon took its place in my memory again. I was confused about how this word could be the translation for doubt but my heart knew it was right. “Dubita.”

The lump in my throat was solid and I just knew that my eyebrows could touch each other. That was the first thing my mother had said to me in that sentence and some part of me wondered what I was supposed to doubt. I had never desired to know what it had meant–never tried even once to understand what she whispered to me on that Friday night.

My palms were slick as I picked up my notebook, pen, and Italian dictionary. First the letter d, then m, then p, then u, and finally t as I found myself putting together a sentence I never thought I would solve.

I gasped once the words finally formed. Words that made a dark feeling of doubt burn my chest. It couldn’t–shouldn’t–be possible.

“Doubt my death, take a train.” Six simple words with impossible meanings. Why would I doubt her death? How did she know that she would die? She told me this mere hours before the accident.

Before she fell, a dark side of my mind reminded me. Did she plan her death? Did she do it… on purpose? Clearly my mind was getting to me now. Clearly I had other things to investigate.

I quickly ran down the hall to the one room my dad and I never go into anymore: mama’s bedroom. The sound of wood scraping against wood was clearly audible as I threw open her desk drawers. Stacks of paper were piled on top of themselves but none were what I was looking for. She told me to take a train, but never said here too go. Luckily, I think I have a way to find it.

“Where is it? Where is it? Where is it?” I repeated to myself. I was beginning to lose hope when I found nothing in the fourth drawer out of six. Beginning to lose my only way to the answer about my mother.

I suck in a breath when I notice the stack of photos. Mom always kept this random stack of photos of us doing things and on the back were simply titles of our actions. Even though it would look normal to the naked eye, it was like new lenses had been put over mine and I just couldn’t stop examining these cards. More specifically, the words.

“Eating.” the first card read. “Illustrating. Games. Origami. Tennis. Pottery. Exploring. Singing.” Tears filled my eyes at the memory of my mother as I read off each title. Each thing that I will never be able to do with her again. Ever. “Planting. Fishing. Ice skating. Reading. Pottery.” Finally, “Napping.”

I lay out each card with the titles up. With the pen, I underline the first letter of each and every title leaving me with the letters e, i, g, o, t, r, e, s, p, f, i, r, p, and n. My thoughts scrambled around my skull, struggling to make sense of this. Somewhere outside the house, or maybe inside the house, I heard a thud, but it didn’t matter to me. I would solve this puzzle. I was good with words and anagrams but had a bad habit of overthinking and second guessing myself. I pause. Anagrams.

And instantly, I had it.

I’ve lived in England my whole life, and as of right now, Ealing. Sure it would take me about an hour to get from the Ealing Broadway train station to the Loughton train station, but it’s the easiest way I have to get to my destination. The Epping Forest.

The first letters to the titles on the photos were an anagram for a location not too far from here. And I planned on taking the first station out. My current clothes were decent so all I had to do was grab my purse and shoes and I was out the door. I walked about a mile to the station and had to pay nearly 5p to ride the full trip even though nearly nobody else was on. If I thought the price was bad, the hour-long ride was worse. The whole time I just sat in silence and contemplated what I could find–if I found anything. I might just be crazy. There might be nothing and I might be wrong.

But… I need to know. There’s no way to describe how I felt since I've lost her. No words could describe this home sick feeling that I’ve had for her. The only way I could describe this feeling is by the two paintings “The Two Fridas” and “The Broken Callum” because of the transferred heart and hole in my chest. It’s kind of weird to crave a hug from somebody who isn’t here, isn’t it?

Still, all of this leads to one resolution–following this path–though my stomach made a thud when the train slowed to a stop. I get up and walk out. Despite the beggars, and the rats, and the stores, I do not stop. My mom is closer to me–I can feel it. I can feel it in the way my hair stands on my neck and in the way my knees have become weak. My eyes even welled up. Mom is here.

The sun is barely out when I reach the sidewalk beside the Loughton station. People bustle around me and grumble about my stillness as I stare across the street. I don’t know when I stopped but I did.

There was no way to move or function–heck, I could barely breathe at the moment–as I stared at the beautiful, brunette woman across the street. The tears in my eyes finally spilled over and flowed down my cheeks. She’s here. She’s alive.

Slowly, I force myself to walk toward her not caring about traffic. She’s so close I could practically jump in her arms. A sob slips out of my mouth as I realize I could hug her again. I get my mother back.

Hope, so much hope filled me that I could physically feel it in my chest. But it all had been shredded to pieces and turned into confusion when my dad–the one who is supposed to be in Ealing–walked up to her and wrapped his arms around her in a position akin to a hug.

Hugs are supposed to be loving and comforting things, but the only way my mother looked right now was… scared? She was scared and definitely not hugging him back. Her eyes briefly flicked to mine as she and my dad talked, a mixture of horror and surprise filling them.

My brain struggled to make sense of it all until something glittered near my moms hip, tucked safely between her and my dads bodies, causing my eye to snag it. My head hurt with how many questions filled it but none of it could compare to the pain or confusion I felt when I realized he was holding her at gun-point.

I had more questions than answers but somehow… I knew. I knew what happened and probably why she is alive. Apparently, my dad had some form of hate but didn’t do a good job of finishing it off. Finishing her off. That’s why he’s back here holding her hostage–because he failed the first time and without a doubt in my mind, I know that he would not dare to fail that again. That is why I have to help her.

So without a falter in my step or hesitation in my mind, I pull out my phone and call the only other person I could think of–grandma Kay. Just as I expected, she picked up on the first ring. My next words lifted a weight off my shoulders that I didn’t know I carried.

I was scared, but I wasn’t going down without this. I had a plan and when there is a plan, there is hope. Just before I started to speak, my father turned to me. His dark eyes got colder and his sick smirk widened. The expression was something akin to a killer’s face when they know what they’ll do–and how proud they’ll be of it.

“Dubita della mia morte. Prendi un treno.” Another strong voice whispered into the dial. My voice this time.