Chapter 8 Matthieu
EIGHT
MATTHIEU
Aheavy chill settled in the mid-October air as Matthieu stepped into the dreary, grey, single-story building his mother called home.
With Julie away, he’d been spending far too much time here lately.
Normally, they split the visits, each checking in once a week. But lately, it had all fallen on him.
The visits were slowly draining him. Just the thought of making the trip was enough to sour his mood for the entire day, and the guilt he felt for feeling that way only made things worse.
Part of the problem was never knowing which version of his mother he’d get.
Some days, she was bright and talkative, her spirits inexplicably high.
She’d chat about the weather or gossip about drama between residents.
They’d sip tea, laugh, and for a little while, it almost felt normal.
Matthieu would catch glimpses of what their relationship could have been, if she hadn’t gotten sick, if she hadn’t taken everything out on him.
It felt like the years of tension between them had never existed.
Even though he knew those days were a lie—knew they were only coming more frequently because her memories were slipping further away—he let himself believe in them. Soaked them up like a child being starved of affection.
Then there were the bad days. The dark-cloud days.
Days when the joy drained from her, leaving nothing but bitterness behind.
Days when Matthieu saw shades of how it had all started.
Those sudden, dramatic lows that pulled her somewhere unreachable.
She’d stop eating, stop bathing. The smallest inconvenience—a missed bill, her favorite bread being out of stock—could spiral into hours of tears, or worse, violent outbursts.
Matthieu had always taken the brunt of it. He’d let her scream at him, throw things, hurl insults, and fists until she wore herself out. Better him than Julie. At least until he’d escaped for school.
And then there were the worst days. The days when he stood in her doorway, looking into the small room she now called home, and her eyes passed right over him, blank, unknowing.
Sometimes, she thought he was a nurse. Other times, she thought he was there to hurt her.
She’d scream for help until a doctor came to remove him, and he’d walk out blinking back tears, heart cracked open.
Losing her like this, slowly, piece by piece, was a cruelty he hadn’t known existed. Sometimes, in the quiet after those visits, he caught himself wishing it would end—that she’d slip away entirely, that he could be free.
He hated himself for it. What kind of son wished for that?
“Hey, Matthieu!” The front desk attendant called out as he walked in. He rolled his shoulders, shaking off the cold, stiff tension.
“Hey, Lauren. How is she today?” If he knew what to expect, it was easier to brace for the gut-punch these visits always brought, no matter her mood.
“Good, I think. She was in the rec room earlier, chatting with Earl. We’ve got to keep an eye on that one. He’s a terrible flirt.”
Earl flirted with anything on two legs. Including Matthieu, more than once. He grimaced, signing in.
“You can head on back. She should be in her room.”
“Thanks.”
Lauren buzzed him through the locked doors to his mother’s ward.
The facility was cold and sterile at the best of times, downright miserable at the worst, not unlike his mother.
It should’ve been nicer for the arm and leg it was costing him.
Between her permanent housing, the medical bills piling up, and Julie’s tuition, he was barely making payments on time.
He was well paid, like every NHL official.
His colleagues lived in sleek apartments and townhomes, took luxury vacations in the off-season, and spent their nights in the city across the Hudson.
Meanwhile, Matthieu lived in a cramped, rundown apartment with Julie.
The second bedroom little more than a glorified closet.
He picked up odd jobs over the summer to keep them afloat.
He reminded himself it wouldn’t be like this much longer. Once Julie graduated and got a job, she could help with the bills and these visits. Maybe then things wouldn’t feel so hard.
He didn’t know why it still got to him, why the thought of seeing his mother made his chest tighten and his jaw lock. She’d never given a damn when he was a kid. Now she needed him, and he was the one bending over backward. Every visit felt like bleeding into an old wound.
Matthieu reached his mother’s doorway and paused to steady himself before pushing it open.
She sat by the window in the chair he’d bought her last Christmas, staring out at the uninspiring view of the parking lot.
He pulled in a grounding breath. This was always the moment of truth, the second she’d turn, meet his gaze, and reveal the expression that would decide the visit’s fate.
Today, a cheery smile, and Matthieu’s guard eased a little.
“Matthieu!” She held out her hand as he approached. He gave it a light squeeze, then let go. He hadn’t hugged—or been hugged—by his mother in so long the idea felt foreign. “You look well, dear. So handsome. Just like your father.”
He wanted to say he wouldn’t know, to ask her not to compare him to the man who’d stuck around just long enough to get her pregnant before vanishing, to insist he was nothing like him. He was still here, damn it, despite everything—despite her.
But what would that do? Nothing. Just ruin her good mood. He didn’t have the heart for that today.
“Mom,” he said, sitting in the chair opposite hers. The cramped room barely fit the second seat, but he and Julie had managed to rearrange the furniture to wedge it in. “How are you today?”
“Oh, fine, fine.” She waved him off, gently setting the book on the windowsill.
Matthieu recognized the title, it hadn’t changed in weeks. She always held it as if she’d just been reading, though the bookmark never moved.
“I don’t want to talk about me. What’s going on with you?”
“Not much.”
The season had just started, and his schedule was already packed. He had few friends, and even fewer obligations beyond keeping his mother housed and his sister in school. Honestly, life felt a little dull lately—not that he could afford excitement.
“I’ve got a game tonight at Keystone Arena. First home one for me.”
The first time he'd share the ice with Kieran since the disaster back in March. Well, outside of the carefully choreographed photo op a few weeks ago.
“That’s wonderful. Have you been traveling much?” she asked, sounding unusually light, almost pleasant.
“Not really. Mostly games in the city. But in two days I’ve got to fly to Pittsburgh for a couple, then one in Buffalo before I’m back.” Guilt pricked at him. Julie usually filled in when he traveled for stretches like this. “It’ll be two weeks before I can visit again.”
“That’s not a problem, dear.”
Her face, which had been calm and almost tranquil moments before, began to shift. Her brow furrowed, deep wrinkles cutting across her forehead as she stared out the window, stewing on whatever thought had sunk its teeth in.
“I’m lucky you bother to visit me at all,” she said at last, sharp and cold. “I haven’t seen Julie in over a month.”
He knew he should’ve agreed, but the need to defend Julie flared too strong. She’d given everything to their mother’s care over the years—more than he ever had—and deserved every second of the freedom she’d finally earned.
“She’s in Paris, Mom. Remember? For school. I told you last visit,” he said gently.
“You told me no such thing,” his mother snapped.
“Okay, Mom. Must’ve slipped my mind,” Matthieu said quickly, trying to defuse it. But it was too late.
“You don’t tell me anything. You lock me up in this place and forget about me until it’s convenient to visit. You don’t know how lonely I’ve been.” Her frustration rose, breaths turning short and shallow.
Guilt gripped Matthieu like a hand around his throat.
Moving their mother into this place had been one of the hardest decisions he and Julie had ever made.
Why couldn’t they have kept taking turns, juggling her care between work and school and everything else?
It didn’t matter how volatile or violent she’d gotten.
A better son would’ve held on longer, would’ve done what sons are supposed to do.
He wouldn’t have locked her away and made her someone else’s problem.
On more rational days, he knew the answer was obvious. She needed more than a minder. She needed meds, doctor oversight, therapy. A community. Things he and Julie couldn’t give her anymore.
“I’m sorry. You’re right. I’ll try to come by more. Work’s been busy.”
“Excuses,” she hissed.
Panic tightened in his chest. He needed to leave before this spiraled, but how could he walk out after that? Still, he had to get some distance before it got worse. He stood slowly, backing away from where their knees had touched. Then he turned toward the door, giving space.
Her expression softened, his distance quelling the anxiety that had begun to bubble over as anger. Then her face shifted again, this time to a smile. Her eyes glinted, distant, like she was remembering something sweet.
“Just like your father,” she whispered, repeating herself like the earlier argument had never happened. She did this sometimes—talked in circles, forgot the middle, then bounced back to the start.
Matthieu drew a deep, grounding breath, willing himself to recenter. “Handsome, you said that already.”
She shot to her feet, finger stabbing the air. “Good for nothing. Abandoning me. Running away.” The calm had only been the eye of the storm. “Tell me—will I know it’s the last time you visit, or will you lie like he did? Promise me next week and disappear forever?”
“I’ll always visit you, Mom.” The words came out small and broken, like a child had said them. Matthieu hated how weak he sounded. How weak he was.