Chapter Eighty Three - Scotch And Shame

The silence in the room was sharp, a fragile kind of stillness that settled over them like frost.

Harriet sat on the edge of the bed, her posture tense, arms wrapped tightly around herself as though she were trying to keep her insides from spilling out. The TV cast flickering shadows over her face — flashes of color illuminating the glassy wetness in her eyes, the trembling in her jaw, the way she blinked too fast as if trying to hold herself together with sheer willpower.

Jackson and Cody stood nearby, still reeling from what they'd overheard. But it was Cody who stepped forward first, voice quiet but firm.

"Did you go to Grandma's that night because of the pregnancy?"

Harriet froze. The question struck like a stone dropped into a lake — rippling through every muscle, every breath. Aura, now awake, curled beside her, sat a little straighter, her wide eyes darting between them.

Harriet opened her mouth to speak, but no sound came. She looked down at her hands, knuckles pale from clenching. Her voice, when it finally came, was barely a whisper — hoarse and cracked.

"No... not at first."

She swallowed hard, tears threatening.

"I went over because of Harper."

She lifted her eyes then — not to Cody or Jackson or Aura, but to the space in front of her, like she was seeing a memory projected in the air.

"Grandma had always been saying horrible things. About Harper. About how she was 'damaged,' how she was dragging the family into shame. And Mom and Dad... they just kept trying to keep the peace. But no one was stopping her. Harper spiralled again, you all saw it."

Her voice broke. "So I thought maybe I could stop her."

She let out a bitter, trembling laugh. "I thought if I tried to talk to her — woman to woman — she might listen. I thought I could reason with her. Tell her she was hurting us, hurting Harper. That it needed to stop."

Jackson's face softened, guilt flickering in his eyes. Cody sat down on the edge of the bed.

"But it didn't go like that, did it?" Cody said gently.

Harriet shook her head. "No. She... she already knew."

"About the baby?" Jackson asked, gently.

Harriet nodded slowly, a tear slipping down her cheek.

"She found out through a colleague. Someone she worked with." She exhaled shakily. 

"And when I — when I just stood there, frozen — she said, 'You'll tell your parents by tomorrow morning. Or I will.'"

More tears. This time, Harriet didn't wipe them away.

"In that moment, I wasn't this confident girl who made cheer captain and got straight A's and kept it all together. I was just... small again. That scared little girl who used to hold her breath at family dinners, praying Grandma wouldn't pick her apart in front of everyone."

Her voice cracked with the weight of it.

"She always liked me — at least, that's what people thought. I was the 'good' one. The one she bragged about. But her love always came with conditions. I had to be exceptional. Controlled. Perfect. There wasn't room for mistakes. Definitely not room for something like this."

She placed a hand over her stomach instinctively, then pulled it back like it burned.

"I didn't even want to keep the baby, but that didn't matter to her. What mattered was that I'd fallen. That I'd gotten drunk, I was being reckless. I was letting the side down."

Harriet let out a deep, broken breath.

"And in that moment, all that anger I'd walked in with — for Harper, for all of us — it just vanished. And I panicked. I begged her not to tell Mom and Dad. I said I'd handle it. That I needed just a little time. But she didn't care. She said I'd brought shame on the family and needed to 'face the consequences like a woman.'"

Cody reached out then, gently resting his hand over hers. "So... what did you do?"

"I screamed at her. I told her she was cruel. I told her she never really loved us — not who we were, only the versions of us that made her look good. I took some pills with me.. to crush into her drink but I didn't go through with it. I was a coward."

Harriet's eyes shimmered with fresh tears. "I didn't end up touching her. I swear to you all. I just yelled. I cried. Then I left. I slammed the door so hard the walls shook. And when I stepped outside, the cold hit me like a slap."

She was quiet for a moment, lost in the memory.

"I remember looking up at the sky, and it was full of stars. It felt wrong, how beautiful it was — like the world didn't care what had just happened."

"And then the next morning..." Aura whispered.

Harriet nodded, barely.

"She was dead. And my secret was safe again. But I didn't feel relieved. I felt... haunted. Like I'd willed it into existence. Like even if I didn't do anything, I was still responsible."

Jackson moved toward her then, slowly, like approaching someone standing on a ledge.

"You've been carrying this alone all this time?" he asked.

Harriet looked up at him, her face crumpling. "Because I thought you'd see me the way she did. As a disappointment. A screw-up. Someone who let everyone down."

Cody's voice was firm, but gentle. "We'd never think that."

Aura leaned her head against Harriet's arm, whispering, "We love you. No matter what."

Jackson wrapped both arms around her, holding her tight. 

And Harriet finally let go — the sobs racking her chest raw, her shoulders shaking in her siblings' embrace. The pain she'd bottled for months poured out like floodwater. She cried not just for her guilt, but for the years she'd spent trying to be good enough for someone who had only loved a version of her that didn't exist.

For the first time in forever, she wasn't holding the family together.

They were holding her. 

Later that night, the old floorboards creaked softly beneath Harriet's bare feet as she padded down the narrow staircase, each step careful, cautious, as though she were trying not to wake the ghosts that slept alongside the rest of the lakehouse. 

The air was cool, tinged with the faint scent of pine and woodsmoke, the silence pressing gently against her ears like cotton.

She wrapped her arms tightly around herself, the oversized hoodie she'd thrown on doing little to soothe the chill that had settled into her skin—and deeper still, into her bones.

The kitchen was bathed in a silver hue, the moonlight spilling through the windows and pooling in quiet puddles on the tiled floor. Harriet crossed the room slowly, her breath steady but shallow, as though too much noise might shatter the fragile stillness of the night.

She opened the cabinet with slow, deliberate hands and retrieved a glass. Her fingertips brushed the edge of the counter as she moved to the sink, her motions methodical, almost mechanical. The water ran softly, a gentle stream that glittered under the moon's gaze as it filled the glass.

She brought it to her lips, but hesitated—then lowered it without taking a sip.

Her eyes drifted to the window above the sink. The dark, still lake shimmered beyond the trees. The reflection in the glass showed her outline—quiet, tired, and thin around the eyes. She didn't recognize herself.

A faint tremble moved through her fingers, and she tightened her grip on the glass.

Just a drink of water. Just a moment to breathe.

But beneath that silence... something else stirred. A weight that had followed her down the stairs. A shadow that hadn't loosened its grip since that night.

And it was growing heavier by the second.

Harriet hesitated at the threshold, the familiar creak of the old house greeting her like a ghost from the past. The scent of polished wood and faint lavender wrapped around her as she stepped inside Cece's living room, the soft glow from a vintage lamp casting a warm pool of light across the worn velvet armchairs.

Cece was already there, seated with her hands folded neatly in her lap, silver hair impeccably styled, her sharp eyes lifting to meet Harriet's with a flicker of something almost like relief. 

"Well, look who finally decided to visit!" she said smoothly, a small, practiced smile tugging at her lips. "University prep must be keeping you busy Hattie, but you know I always enjoy a visit."

Harriet returned the smile, tentative but genuine. 

"I know, Grandma. I've been meaning to come for a while." She stepped further in, setting her bag down carefully. "I thought it would be nice to talk... about university. My midwifery classes start next term. I'm really excited."

Cece's smile softened, the hardness in her eyes dulling just a little. "Midwifery... yes, a respectable path. The Baldwin legacy continues." She patted the arm of her chair, inviting Harriet to sit. "Pour us both a drink, will you? Let's toast to new beginnings."

Harriet hesitated only a moment before moving toward the small minibar, the clink of glasses filling the brief silence. 

She poured two glasses of scotch, the amber liquid catching the lamp's glow. Returning to her grandmother, she handed over a glass and settled into the chair opposite, grateful for the rare moment of calm.

For a few minutes, they talked about university life, classes, and the small hopes Harriet held for the future. Cece's expressions were carefully guarded but softer than Harriet remembered—almost like the grandmother she'd wished for.

But then, as if the warmth was a fragile veneer ready to crack, Cece's gaze sharpened. She leaned forward, her voice dropping to a tone that sent a chill down Harriet's spine.

"So.." Cece began smoothly, "I must ask why are you really here, Harriet? Because I doubt you came just to talk about midwifery. Your body language says something else."

Harriet swallowed hard, feeling the steady pulse of anxiety rise in her chest. She took a slow breath, gathering courage. "I wanted to talk to you about Harper."

Cece's eyes narrowed, the softness evaporating like mist. "Harper? That girl's a lost cause. A disgrace to the family. No sense of direction. Always running from responsibility."

The words hit Harriet like ice. Her fists clenched in her lap, but she fought to keep her voice steady. 

"Leave her alone, Grandma. Please. She's doing her best."

Cece laughed—a low, bitter sound that made Harriet's stomach churn. "Doing her best?! She's dragging the whole family down. Jackson's on the fast track to becoming an alcoholic, Aura's wasting herself away with that ridiculous disorder of hers, and Cody's barely around enough to even matter anymore. The only one I had hopes for was you. And you blew it."

Harriet's pulse quickened, fierce protectiveness rising like a shield. "They're my family. You don't get to tear them down."

Cece's lips curled into a cruel smile. "You're always so quick to defend them. But what about you, Harriet? I know the truth. Your little secret you have been hiding. The one that's been keeping you up at night."

Harriet's breath caught, every nerve prickling. "What secret?"

Cece's gaze bore into her. "The pregnancy. The little 'mistake' with Sebastian. Don't think I don't hear the whispers. You really thought no one would find out? Emma's from your math class, well, her mother hears everything at the studio. Finola's got the biggest mouth in Glenwood. Half the town's whispering."

Harriet's hands shook as she gripped her glass tighter. "It wasn't a mistake like that. It wasn't planned. I wasn't ready."

"And yet you hid it. Lied to your parents. Hid from your responsibilities!" Cece snapped. "That's what weak people do. You're being weak, Harriet!"

Harriet's throat tightened, tears threatening, but she refused to let them fall. 

Cece shook her head slowly, voice icy. "You're a disappointment, Harriet. The Baldwin name means nothing if you don't stand up and face what you've done. Have I taught you nothing?!"

For a long moment, silence hung between them—thick and suffocating. Harriet's breath came fast and shallow, the room spinning. She wanted to scream, to break down, but instead, she shrank inside herself—the scared little girl who just wanted to be loved and accepted.

Cece turned away to straighten a stack of coasters on the coffee table, her final words still cutting the air like blades yet Harriet sat frozen, the glass in her hand trembling slightly. Her fingers slipped into the pocket of her coat, brushing against the pills hidden there. Just the sound of it—seemed to roar in her ears.

Her heart pounded violently, each beat echoing like a warning siren in her chest.

Cece's voice drifted back, quieter now, but soaked in venom. 

"You think you can outrun the truth, Harriet? You think you'll be the exception? You're not. You're going to be just like every other silly girl who ruins her life before it's even begun. But you—you were supposed to be better. You were supposed to carry this family. Instead you're the one dragging it down. Get yourself together."

Harriet's eyes burned. Her stomach twisted. Her fingers worked the edge of the open pill bottle, her breath shallow. She glanced at the untouched scotch sitting beside Cece's elbow, its amber glow almost mocking her. One motion. That's all it would take. Just a pinch. Cece wasn't even looking.

Do it.

Harriet do it.

She reached forward, hand trembling, hovering just above the glass. The weight of months—no, years—of fear, pressure, and shame pressed down on her like a vice. Her vision swam, her fingertips slick with sweat. She thought of Harper. Of Jackson and Cody. Of Aura. Of how hard she'd tried to be the strong one. The responsible one. The perfect Baldwin.

Then her eyes caught her reflection in the scotch's golden surface—just a blur of pale skin, watery eyes, and barely-contained panic. Not a woman in control. Not the eldest daughter with all the answers.

A scared little girl. The same girl who used to sit in this room tracing the swirls in the carpet while Cece corrected her posture, her tone, her clothes—her entire existence.

She couldn't do it. Because if she did, she'd become what Cece always believed her to be — weak, unworthy, incapable of controlling herself. And Harriet, even shattered, still had something her grandmother never would. 

Compassion.

Her hand dropped away from the glass, fast, as if it burned. The pill bottle slipped from her fingers and fell back into her pocket. Her breath hitched, and before she could stop it, a sob burst from her chest—raw, desperate, aching.

Cece turned slowly, her expression unreadable. 

"I—I.." Harriet choked out, voice shaking as she pushed herself up from the sofa. Her legs were weak, her knees barely steady under the weight of everything she carried.

"I just need to go." she added, the words crumbling as they left her mouth.

"Running away now, are we? Don't like the truth?" Cece asked, folding her arms, voice laced with cold amusement.

Harriet shook her head, but she still couldn't meet her grandmother's eyes. "I'm not running. I just... I need air. I can't breathe in here."

"Then go." Cece said, turning back toward the fireplace, dismissive and cold. 

"But remember—truth doesn't disappear just because you leave the room, Harriet. Sooner or later, your parents will see you for what you are. You don't have to go down this path. Don't embarrass us. Don't tarnish the Baldwin name, you know better than this."

The words hit Harriet like a slap. But she didn't argue back. She couldn't. She turned toward the door, vision blurred by tears, chest tight with grief and guilt and panic.

"You'll never outrun it, Harriet. You can't hide forever. They'll know. Everyone always knows. The truth always comes out. Tell your parents before I will."

But Harriet didn't look back.

She just left—coat barely on, heart in shreds, the cold night air outside slapping against her cheeks like punishment. She didn't know where she was going. She just knew she had to get away.

Away from that house.

Away from her.

Away from the version of herself that almost did the unthinkable.

The kitchen was cloaked in a soft, moonlit hush, the only sound the slow trickle of water from the tap as Harriet filled a glass with trembling hands. 

The house was asleep—her siblings tucked away in their rooms, the lake beyond the window glinting under the pull of the night sky. The fridge hummed faintly. The silence was almost kind. Almost.

But inside her, everything screamed.

She brought the glass to her lips but couldn't drink. Her throat felt too tight, like something invisible had coiled around it. 

The air was too still, too thin. Her fingers clenched around the glass. She stared into the reflection in the kitchen window—her pale face lit only by the faint glow of the moon. Her eyes were wide and bloodshot, dark circles heavy beneath them. The same eyes she had seen staring back at her in her grandmother's glass.

She pressed the glass down on the counter—hard—and gripped the edge of the marble like it might hold her upright.

It didn't.

The sob escaped before she could stop it, thick and guttural, ripping from her chest like it had waited months to be heard. Then another followed. And another. She sank to the floor, knees folding beneath her like a marionette with its strings cut. Her arms wrapped tightly around herself, as if that might keep her from falling apart completely.

The cold tile against her skin was grounding and awful all at once.

She tried to keep quiet. She didn't want to wake anyone. But the tears came fast, wild, unrelenting. Her shoulders shook as she cried harder than she had in months—years maybe. It wasn't just about her grandmother. It wasn't even just about the baby. It was everything.

The pressure. The pretending. The perfection she was always supposed to embody. The way she had stood in that house, holding death in her palm like it was a solution. The shame of it. The fear. The fact that, deep down, some part of her still wondered what would have happened if she had done it.

She curled tighter, pressing her forehead to her knees, gasping for breath. She felt sick. Empty. Hollowed out.