Amo Te Semper

The cobweb stretches across the door like it alone holds the room closed, a testament to how long it has succeeded. Yet, a web is nothing more than an illusion of time. It could be a century old, or only a day. I know precisely how long it has been since anyone last crossed this threshold.

They say she went insane—her screams carrying down the street, disrupting the suburban dream of an ideal, picture-perfect neighborhood. Rumors often carry a kernel of truth, but mostly they are just rumors. I wasn’t there, so I cannot separate fact from fiction. I would not blame her had she gone mad; I nearly did. We locked the memory away, sealing the room moments after the police finished their investigation.

My hand trembles as I push harder against the door. A faint crack of light spills through the frame, catching the dust motes that float in the air like fragile stars. A red neon glow from the setting sun pulses like embers in a blacksmith’s forge. The stale, whispering air squeezes between the old wood and cracked jamb, and a high-pitched howl seems to echo from the walls themselves. I cannot move my hand away. It is frozen to the brass handle, a child’s tongue pressed against winter metal.

The air smells of time. It is the same nostalgic sense that washes over you when stepping into a grandparent’s home—the scent may differ, but the feeling is identical.

To my left, I see Beth curled upon the loveseat. Shadows drift across her still frame as the flames in the stone fireplace dance, swaying to rhythms only fire understands. The room hums with silence, broken only by the snapping logs and her soft, private humming—a tune no one else knows. Sometimes, people are not ready for responsibilities of such magnitude. The fault lies with me; she should never have borne this burden.

Every year on the anniversary, I try to enter the room. Every year, I fail. This year, I have come further than ever, but my muscles atrophy under the weight of fear. Fear of the unknown, or fear of the known—I cannot say. Lately, the urge to understand has become overbearing. At night, I swear I hear it: a soft humming from behind the door, the same song she now hums. I glance at her and see her staring back. Red, vacant eyes pierce me; I am no more than a pane of glass, a fragile force on the verge of shattering.

My hand moves again, and the door creaks. I freeze. Time stretches. A lone spider descends from the doorframe, dangling like a tiny pendulum before scrambling across the floor. I follow it with my eyes, and once more, I see Beth looking toward me. Pale, untamed, searching for a compassion she believes she does not deserve.

I step toward her, drawn as though by gravity.

“How are you feeling?” I ask.

“I’m fine.” She lies.

“You?” I respond with a lie of my own.

I am weary of these two-word exchanges, both of us walking on eggshells, careful not to hurt one another. We have hurt enough already.

I glance back at the door. The crack emits an auburn glow, stretching tendrils of light like a flickering furnace flame.

“It’s getting late. Are you hungry?” I try.

“No, not really,” she murmurs.

More distraction than hunger, I pour a glass of single malt scotch, generous with the pour. I sit opposite her, hypnotized by the amber liquid glowing in the firelight. A clarity long absent pierces the fog of my thoughts. I have been trying to solve the unsolvable, pressing myself to reason through grief instead of listening. The truth is simple: grief is messy.

Beth will stand before the door, just as I do, yet she walks away when I call. We both pretend the room does not exist. Not today.

“I saw you this morning by the door,” I say.

“Oh?”

“Did you go in?” I ask, knowing the answer.

She shakes her head. “No. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be,” I reply. “I’m glad you keep trying.”

She sits up, drawing her knees to her chest. “Really?”

“Yes. It makes me feel like I’m not alone.”

Her arms wrap around her legs as she rocks gently, staring at me. I notice how much she has grown, and I cannot pinpoint when she became a young woman rather than a child.

“I thought you would be angry. Mom always was.”

I rise, set the drink aside, and sit beside her. My arms envelop her. Her body shivers, tiny and fragile against mine. Hugging your child should be as natural as breathing. I realize I have been afraid to try.

“Mom wasn’t angry with you,” I say softly.

“Sure fooled me. Mom hated when I wanted to go into the room. If I suggested it, she would yell.”

It is true. After the incident, Laura became tense, and I withdrew into silence.

“Mom had a hard time dealing with it,” I say.

“So did I,” she murmurs, “but no one cared.”

I squeeze her. “That’s not true. We cared. We just didn’t do a good job of showing it.”

“Mom left because of me. Because of what I did.”

Grief is misunderstood.

“No. She left because she could not live in this house anymore. To her, it was no longer a home, only a painful reminder. And I couldn’t leave. It wasn’t your fault.”

Her head tilts, eyes toward the door. “I am so sorry… if it wasn’t for me…”

I cut her off gently. “It was not your fault. The doctor said it was natural causes—something none of us could have foreseen.”

Perhaps she was too young. We let her argue she was old enough to watch her younger brother. Three of her friends had already been babysitters. Her mother and I had been proud of how she spoke up.

We were gone for three hours. Three hours too long.

“Dad, I didn’t know what to do. I screamed… maybe I should have called sooner… checked on him… phoned you and Mom…”

I take her shoulders, look into her eyes with a calmness that surprises even me. “There was nothing you could have done. Nothing anyone could have done. I am sorry you were the one here. Your mother never blamed you, and neither did I.”

For the first time, a light sparks in her eyes: awareness, understanding, forgiveness.

“It wasn’t me?” she whispers.

“No. It wasn’t you.”

Her relief bursts forth. “Can I tell you something?”

Usually, I would say, It isn’t necessary. This time, I nod. “Of course.”

Sitting straight, she takes a deep breath. “I feel that if I enter the room, he will be there, as if nothing happened. I tried every night after it happened but could not find the strength.”

She pauses. “Sometimes I imagine hearing him hum that song Nana would sing. But I can never open the door.”

I reach for her chilled hand. “Amo te semper.”

“What?”

“It means ‘I love you always.’ Nana cried those words at the service. I did not understand then, but the passion mirrored my own.”

She mouths the words repeatedly. In the quiet, only the clock ticks and the fire crackles. When she finally looks up, I see a change. Light in her eyes.

For years, she has been silent. Now, words pour forth: memories of the last night with her brother—popcorn, sneaking root beer, laughter when the fizzy drink went up his nose. I remember things I had buried. I smile, listening, almost speechless, letting her flood the room with memories, unfiltered and raw.

Night falls fully. Serenity creeps into our bones like a winter chill. Her jaw quivers.

“It wasn’t my fault?”

I swallow hard. “It never was.”

We hold each other, tears falling, relief mingling with sorrow. How long had she carried this undeserved guilt? I hold her until her body is limp, exhaustion washing over both of us.

I lay her on the couch, covering her with a blanket. Her chest rises and falls steadily. I collapse into my chair, drained, staring at my little girl and wondering why it took me so long to be the parent I needed to be.

Sometimes, it is more than a locked door that needs opening. She was not asking for our forgiveness. She was learning to forgive herself.

Rising, I move toward the door, still slightly ajar. Moonlight filters in, dust and memories settling over the untouched room. I am tempted to close it again, to seal away the pain for another year. But I glance back at Beth, finally at peace. Hoping to find my own, I step inside and whisper, “Amo te semper.”