The world was spinning—
"You don't need to be afraid. I'm right here, Frank. I've always been here. But there are laws, and in this country, everything must be legal, so we need to make some decisions."
His mother was trying to explain, but he couldn't focus.
He noticed the old woman packing up some belongings. Why was she packing? Whose things was she packing? Who was she?
The "uncle" was in the corner, talking to his father, holding some papers. What were they discussing? Why wasn't his father saying anything?
The old woman moved about, the uncle moved about.
His vision blurred, the whole world spinning fast until every image and sound twisted like in a funhouse mirror.
He felt like he was going to be sick.
"Mr. Kosner is here for this."
Yes, that was the uncle's name. He had introduced himself just now, but why was it all so fuzzy? Who was this uncle really?
The uncle continued, "Often, these decisions are made in court, but it can be expensive, Frank. People fight over children."
His mother interjected, "No one is going to fight!"
"Look at me, Frank, no one is going to fight!"
The old woman babbled something unintelligible.
His mother quickly stood up and walked over to the old woman, explaining in the same strange language.
His head was spinning, and he could no longer distinguish who was talking to whom. Voices mingled together, while faces blurred into one.
Finally, he found an opening and turned to his father.
"Dad, what's happening?"
His father sat on the couch, the lamp beside him casting a soft light over his face. He met Frank's gaze, trying to explain, but no words came out. He just stared back, frozen.
Frank's eyes pleaded, **Dad, say something, anything.**
But there was no response, and Frank's heart slowly sank—
The memories came flooding back, all the hurt, all the pain.
In that moment, Frank couldn't tell if he was young Frank or Anson, if this was the past or the present, the line between reality and illusion completely blurred. He was drowning in the ruins of memories.
Then, his mother's voice cut through once more.
"Do you remember your grandmother, Eve?"
"She arrived this morning."
His face was filled with confusion as he looked at the old woman, now realizing that the strange language they had been speaking was French. So, that's what it was.
The old woman approached him with a warm smile, cupping his face and planting a kiss on his forehead. He tried to recall any memories of her, but he failed. All he could do was offer a polite smile.
His mother sat back down beside him.
"Do you understand what we're saying, Frank?"
He was still stunned.
Looking into his mother's eyes, he shook his head slightly, his angelic face innocent, with his brows relaxed, gazing at her with a touch of curiosity, waiting for an answer.
Natalie froze for a moment, the look in Frank's eyes landing softly on her cheek like a butterfly, but it tugged at her heartstrings.
She finally realized that she was shattering a child's world.
But there was no turning back. The bowstring had been drawn, and there was no retreating.
Her words faltered on her tongue. Despite being an experienced actress, even Natalie didn't realize that her tone softened, becoming careful and delicate, as if handling a fragile crystal.
"Your father and I are getting a divorce."
It was said, finally said.
He seemed incapable of reacting, just sitting there, dumbfounded.
Grandmother said something.
His father said something, "Nothing will change. We can still see each other."
**Mother's words cut through the air, silencing Father with a sharp reprimand, "Stop it, please. Frank, don't interrupt."**
He heard everything, yet couldn't comprehend what they were truly saying. Their mouths moved, sounds mingled, but it was all a blur.
Was his mother calling him or his father?
Instinctively, he looked over, past his mother, locking his gaze on his father. His stare was stubborn and unwavering, with a hint of vulnerability in his eyes:
**Weren't things supposed to get better? Weren't they working on it, together? Weren't they supposed to return to how they were before?**
So, what had happened?
Christopher's heart skipped a beat. Under the weight of that gaze, he looked away, guilt-ridden, and dropped his head, overwhelmed by anxiety.
Yet, it was futile. He could still feel the warmth of that gaze.
No anger, no sadness, no tears, no frown—just a calm plea, filled with countless unanswered questions. He waited, unable to get any response, standing there, powerless but resolute.
Christopher couldn't bear it; he really couldn't meet those eyes. They were calm, without any turmoil, yet they engulfed him entirely.
He had never felt so defeated.
Fortunately, the uncle—no, the lawyer—stepped in at the perfect moment.
"You don't need to read all of this. Most of it concerns your parents' matters, the troubles of adults. But this part... this part is very important."
"Because it talks about who you'll live with after the divorce. Who will have custody of you."
Those words finally caught his attention, and he focused on the lawyer. But the moment was fleeting, like a heavy bomb dropped in the room, sending ripples through the air, spreading endlessly.
Instinctively, he turned to his father, hoping for him to say something—anything. But there was nothing.
Then, his gaze shifted to his mother, searching her eyes for something—anything. But she didn't meet his gaze, her attention fixed solely on the legal documents in her hands. This update is available on NovєlFіre.net
She said, "There's a blank space here."
Grandmother's voice chimed in again, and he could no longer see his father, lost in the cacophony of sounds around him. The lawyer continued to drone on.
"You'll go to the kitchen, sit at the table, and write down either 'Father' or 'Mother'..."
"There's no rush, but when you return to this room..."
The world was a noisy blur.
On the film set, there was absolute silence; no one dared to interrupt the shoot.
Perhaps Steven was the only exception—
**"Front. Close-up."**
He immediately issued the command to the cameraman through his headset, driven by a strong premonition. He instinctively seized the moment.
He wanted to see those eyes; he needed a close-up of those eyes.
The cameraman acted swiftly, rotating clockwise from behind, moving forward to get a frontal shot, focusing the camera on Anson's face.
Initially, he was waiting for Steven's direction, wondering whether to cut quickly or zoom in slowly. But then he saw Anson's eyes—his inspiration struck, sending chills down his spine. The camera locked onto those pupils, engaging in a silent "conversation" through the lens. Suddenly, the world around him went quiet.