CHAPTER FORTY ONE - DILEMMA 

WILLIAMS’ POV

As my mom's words painted a picture of a woman strong and defiant, yet shrouded in mystery, a flicker of recognition sparked in my mind. There was a faint echo, a whisper of a memory, a woman with windswept hair and eyes that held both kindness and steel. Was this my grandmother? The woman in the photo?

A wave of nausea washed over me. The revelation was too much to bear. I closed my eyes, trying to ground myself, to find a solid footing in this shifting landscape of lies and half-truths.

When I opened them again, my mom's figure was a blur through the tears that blurred my vision. She reached out, her hand hovering uncertainty near mine. I flinched, the touch a raw nerve in the open wound of my identity.

"Don't," I croaked, my voice barely audible.

She withdrew her hand, a look of profound sadness etching her face. "I understand," she whispered.

The silence that followed was heavy, oppressive. The only sound was the distant echo of our own ragged breaths. Monica's hand