Part 8: The Hidden Boxes
Months after Patricia’s imprisonment, I decided to tackle the garage of our old house—the one we had sold to start fresh. I had been avoiding it, knowing it was filled with "heirlooms" Patricia had insisted we keep.
As I opened the dusty cardboard boxes, I found more than just old plates and dusty books.
I found journals.
There were dozens of them, dating back to my childhood. Each one was filled with her observations of my life. Not stories, but data. Who I spoke to. What I ate. How long I cried when I was hurt. She had been tracking me since I was six years old.
And then, I found a box labeled "Ethan - Future."
Inside were drafts of emails she had written to my employers, my friends, even a local landlord, all under my name. She had been preparing to curate my life, step by step, for decades.
May you like
I sat on the cold garage floor, staring at the evidence of a life that wasn't mine. It was a terrifying, suffocating realization. I wasn't just a son to her; I was a project. A puppet.
I didn't burn the journals. I didn't hide them. I took them directly to Detective Collins. If there were other victims—other "projects"—the authorities needed to know.
