Chapter 4 : Lie
Ayumi didn't give up on trying to find Takashi and kept on contacting his family, even if all her attempts were met with no response. None of his friends or colleagues knew where he had disappeared to and she could only assume that he was with his parents.
After a few months when she had completely recovered, she packed a small bag with their essentials and took the first train to the countryside, where Takashi's family lived.
The gentle sway of the train lulled little Ai to sleep against her chest, and Ayumi found herself rehearsing what she would say when she finally faced him and his parents. She hoped that upon seeing their granddaughter's face, they'd be more willing to talk.
But she couldn't have been more wrong.
When she reached their home, she stood outside their door for what seemed like an eternity. The house felt more imposing than she remembered from her previous visits. Taking a deep breath, she shifted Ai in her arms and finally knocked.
No answer came.
She knocked again, called out politely.
Still nothing.
After fifteen minutes, she was certain they were deliberately ignoring her. She sat down on the stone steps, waiting against all odds that they'll eventually answer.
Hours passed. The afternoon sun was about to set, casting long shadows across the garden. She waited patiently, hoping to catch a glimpse of Takashi.
Just as the sun had set, the door cracked open — just slightly. Takashi's sister peered out through the narrow opening. Her eyes darted nervously behind her before she spoke in a hushed voice.
"Takashi's not here," she whispered, "He never returned home. He told us he needed some time alone. Mother and Father are furious, they'll call the authorities to have you removed. Please, leave."
"Don't you want to at least meet your niece?" Ayumi asked, lifting Ai slightly.
Her eyes flickered to the baby for just a moment before her expression hardened. "I don't want to see her. Just leave."
The door closed with a definitive click.
Ayumi stood up, her head racing — Takashi never returned home? It's been three months, where could he be?
Rejected and nowhere to go as the night came along, she headed to the train station. The ride home she wondered if her sister in law had lied and they knew where he was. Nothing else made sense.
Back in Tokyo, Ayumi pulled herself together over the next few days, thinking through her situation and strengthening her resilience for her daughter.
The money Takashi had left them was a substantial amount — as if he had left his entire savings behind, but it was still finite. She created a meticulous budget, stretching his money as far as it would go. Once every week she sat down at the kitchen table, recording every expense and planning for their future.
She documented every milestone of Ai's life. First words — mama, written in a journal with date and time, her first steps recorded in a video, her first birthday and smiles captured in photos.
Same time every weekend she called Takashi's home, hoping for news about Takashi's whereabouts, but on one ever picked up. Every single time it went on voicemail and she left brief messages about little Ai's shenanigans that week ending with the same request — "Come back, Takashi."
No response ever came, but still, she persisted.
Three years later, the money began to run low. There was still enough to last another year of careful budgeting. It was a miracle she managed to stretch it for three years with that much remaining.
Ai had turned three a few months ago and had started preschool, and that gave her the perfect hours to get a part time job at a convenience store to supplement their dwindling savings.
When her shift ended, she made her way over to the preschool to pick her daughter up.
Ai's face lit up upon seeing her mother, and she playfully jogged her way over. Her backpack, which seemed too big for her, bounced on her back amd it never failed to make Ayumi giggle.
As they walked back home, Ai talked about her day, the things she learned, the games they played, the friends she made. When they reached home, little Ai helped her mother, or at least she tried to.
Her life became a new routine.
The work was hard, the days were harder. Everyday she stood for hours, dealing with impatient customers, then rushing to pick up Ai from the preschool and take care of the house and prepare dinner — it all took its toll.
Some nights, Ayumi would collapse into bed, muscles aching, only to wake up at dawn and begin again.
But when she would see her daughter peacefully sleeping. Her smile when she bobbed her way towards her when the preschool would end, how Ai would climb on her lap, chattering about her day, showing off scribbled drawings she made at school — made it all worth it.
Yet sometimes, in rare, quiet moments, watching Ai play, an inexplicable uneasiness would creep over her.
Ayumi told herself it was just fatigue playing tricks on her mind, making her feel uneasy.
And perhaps she was right. Because everytime her daughter noticed her and broke into a smile — all her worries would dissolve in an instant.
- x -
At five years old, Ai had become the center of Ayumi's world. The supporting pillar that kept her going through the exhaustion of single motherhood. Her every milestone, every laugh, every tiny achievement fueled Ayumi with the energy to push through another day.
As Ai grew more independent, capable of handling small responsibilities and staying briefly by herself in the apartment, Ayumi had the opportunity to expand her work hours to full-time. The additional income helped, but the longer hours drained her further.
Still, coming home to Ai's bright smile made it all worth it.
"Mama, look, look! I cleaned the house!" Ai would announce proudly.
Or, "I put away the dishes!"
Or, "I folded the laundry!"
It was her way of trying to take some load off of her mother's back. Each time, Ayumi would smile, brushing away the fatigue that clung to her bones. "Thank you, Ai. You're such a good helper."
Despite their tight budget, Ayumi had organised a small birthday party for Ai's fifth birthday. She had spent weeks planning and saving every spare yen, determined to give her daughter a celebration worthy of her bright spirit.
Ai had excitedly invited all her kindergarten friends, and to Ayumi's surprise, more children showed up than she had expected, carrying colorful wrapped presents and cheerful smiles. Their apartment was filled with cheerful voices, the sweet smell of homemade cake and the warmth of children's happiness.
For the first time in a long time, Ayumi felt normal, chatting with the other mothers, exchanging stories, watching Ai laugh and play with the other kids without a care in the world.
After her birthday, life returned to their familiar routine. Ayumi worked her shifts, Ai attended kindergarten, and they made most of their evenings together. But some rituals remained unchanged, no matter how futile they seemed.
The next weekend, like clockwork, she called Takashi's home again. As always, no one picked up and it went to voicemail.
"Hello, it's Ayumi again," she spoke softly into the phone. "Ai turned five a few days ago. We had a small birthday celebration, she had the prettiest smile on her face the entire time. She got a set of building blocks that she hasn't put down since opening them."
She took a moment to breathe, "She's growing up so fast, I wish you could see her, Takashi… I miss you."
She grabbed the framed photo beside the telephone and settled back on the couch. Her fingers brushed on the frame — a picture of her and Takashi the day they got married, both young and radiant, his arm around her waist, both smiling as if the future held nothing but happiness.
Beyond the photo, Ai stood on her knees on the carpet, meticulously arranging blocks into a tower, her brow furrowed and her tongue out in concentration.
"I wish you were here with me…" Ayumi whispered, tracing his face in the photograph. "Look at how our daughter has grown."
She looked from the photo to Ai, then back again. Something tugged at her consciousness — the same uneasiness that occasionally surfaced when she studied her daughter's features.
Ai turned slightly, reaching for another block and the evening light brightening up her face.
Ayumi's eyes darted back and forth between the photo and her daughter. Again and again.
Her daughter's eyes were different from Takashi's.
They were different from hers too.
She sat up straighter, her eyes frantically searching for similarities. The curve of her nose? The shape of her face? Her smile? Anything.
None of it matched Takashi's. And she could not unsee her eyes once she noticed them.
"No, no, no…" she whispered, her voice barely audible. Her breath quickened, watching Ai immersed in her play and a tear slipped down her cheek, quickly followed by a stream.
Before her daughter could notice, Ayumi rose and quickly stepped out of the apartment, closing the door behind her.
She slid to the floor with her back against the door and the tears just kept coming. The uneasiness she had felt on rare moments looking at her daughter returned with crushing force.
She had known — somewhere deep inside, she had always known. She had harboured doubts but kept herself from confronting them. But now she could deny it no longer.
Ai was not Takashi's daughter.
She had tried to convince Takashi that Ai was his daughter with such conviction that she had believed it herself. Maybe she was trying to convince herself more than him, and for the past six years—
She had lied to herself.
And now the truth was impossible to ignore. The world she had built with her own hands shattered right in front of her.
How could she ever face Takashi again? How could she ever face herself again? How could she face Ai again?
The night turned cold and hours went by in a blur while Ayumi silently cried in the apartment hallway, until her body felt like a dying husk. The tears had dried up, leaving marks along her cheeks.
She told herself she should go inside, but her body didn't listen to her. All she could do was close her eyes and let the cold air hush her to sleep.
- x -
Ever since Ayumi had confronted the truth that Ai was not Takashi's daughter, something inside her had cracked.
She moved through life like a shell of herself, drained of all the energy that had once propelled her forward. Her hands moved sluggishly at work, her responses dull and automatic. The store owner noticed the changes in her behaviour and assumed it was the strain of single motherhood that took its toll on her and offered her a few days off, kind words and a listening ear.
But nothing helped.
Ayumi began showing up late at the kindergarten to pick her daughter up, and all the daughter's attempts of telling her about her day were only met with distracted nods or grunts.
The once-loving eyes of the mother now seldom met her daughter's.
Their lives followed the same routine as it always did, but now there was something mechanical about it. Stripped of the warmth that once made their tiny apartment a loving home.
Every weekend she had called Takashi's home without fail, leaving brief messages about how Ai was growing up. But now — how could she?
The weekend arrived and she stood by the telephone, watching the framed photo of her marriage beside it for a long time, and brushed her fingers against the glass, lingering on Takashi's smiling face one last time before she put it away.
She settled on the couch, leaning her head back and staring at the ceiling. Her lips began to quiver, her eyes pooled up with tears, and she took a deep breath, trying to keep herself from crying but the tears found their way down her cheeks. Then her voice cracked, and soft cries filled the apartment.
Little Ai peered in the living room, her eyes widening at the sight of her mother crumpled on the couch. She rushed over and climbed onto the couch beside her, "Mama, what's wrong?" she asked, her voice full of concern.
Ayumi lifted her head to look at her, her daughter's face a blurry mess through her tears and the more she looked, the more she heard her voice, an unexplainable rage grew inside her. Before she could stop herself, her hand had struck her daughter. She didn't even realise how hard she had hit her.
Ai fell from the couch, down to the hard floor and she began wailing.
Ayumi's soft cries, quickly replaced by her daughter's loud cries.
The feelings her daughter evoked in her were unexplainable. She raised her hand slowly wanting to comfort her daughter, to whisper an apology but something stopped her and she couldn't bring herself to touch her.
Love and Disgust waged war inside her, twisting in ways she couldn't untangle. How could she want to love her and yet, feel this unbearable weight whenever she looked at her?
Unable to process her feelings, she chose to get out, in an attempt to clear her head.
Leaving her crying daughter alone in the apartment.
- x -