Brandon and Clara Harrison NovelA Mother’s Death and Their Remorse

The eighth year since I was diagnosed with autism, Mom was packed into a red suitcase.

She didn't come out for a long, long time.

I didn't cry or make a fuss, because Mom had given me a mission.

She'd carved words onto my back, telling me to find an old man named Mr. Harrison, saying he was my maternal grandpa.

I asked blankly:

"What if I can't find him?"

At just that one sentence, Mom's eyes reddened. She fell silent for a moment, mumbling unconsciously.

"You're right, what if I can't find him...?"

After she spoke, even her shoulders began to tremble.

Doctor Auntie said that Mom was sad, so I hugged her tightly.

It worked.

The next second, she smiled through her tears, cupping my face with both hands and saying:

"If you can't find Grandpa Harrison, then find Brandon. They're both good people and they'll like you."

But later, when I found them both,

I realized Mom hadn't just lied to them, she'd lied to me too.


Two hours after Mom left,

I finally went outside.

Mom had specifically told me to wait.

But I didn't listen to her and go straight to the police station. Instead, I went to the nearby dumpster.

Several times, I'd seen bad people drag her there.

My footsteps were very light.

But no one was at the dumpster, only a pungent smell, and a single, bright red suitcase.

I circled the suitcase a few times.

Mom said not to touch unfamiliar things casually.

I started to leave, but stopped when I lifted my foot.

An hour later, I stood at the police station entrance, dragging the suitcase.

The bright red color on me was too dazzling.

The police officer stroked my head.

"Little one, where are your parents? Your mom and dad?"

My face was devoid of expression. My blood-stained finger pointed at the suitcase, my voice stiff.

"Mom's in there!"

At a glance, the officer scoffed. He ruffled my hair, a disapproving look on his face.

"Kids shouldn't lie. This suitcase is barely 20 inches. How could a person fit in it?"

I didn't argue. I went along with what he said.

"Sir, my dad's name is Brandon."

To complete Mom's mission, a small lie was fine.

The officer's eyes changed when he looked at me. He immediately turned and made a phone call.

A moment later, I saw Brandon, the man Mom had mentioned.

Tall, thin, and imposing.

And somehow vaguely familiar.

Because on countless nights, Mom would hold his photo and secretly cry.

And I pretended not to see.

When he saw me, his eyes flickered, then instantly filled with a hint of disgust, much like the expressions of the neighbors who called me crazy.

"Mr. Peterson, he says he's Clara Harrison's son. Apparently, he's not quite right in the head..."

The man pointed to his own head and shook it.

Brandon frowned, stepped back a few paces, and then squatted down to my eye level.

"Where's your mom?"

I pointed to the suitcase.

"She's in there!"

His already indifferent face instantly darkened, his brows furrowing even deeper.

"Your mom is a thief who stole and sold artifacts. You're truly her son, also full of lies!"

I gripped my fingers, wanting desperately to argue with him.

But Mom's mission wasn't finished yet. I had to endure.

I lowered my head and apologized softly, mimicking how children in TV shows act when they've done something wrong.

"Sorry, sir. But Mom has something to give you."

Seeing me apologize, his stern face softened slightly.

"What?"

I glanced at the people around us and shook my head.

"Mom said only you can see it!"

Hearing this, someone scoffed mockingly:

"Mr. Peterson, don't listen to him! His mother not only ran away from your wedding but also stole a batch of your family's ancient artifacts. What kind of decent offspring could such a bitch produce!"

"A so-called artifact restorer, always tinkering in the black market, associating with those illicit dealers. She's rotten to the core!"

"She's too ashamed to face you herself, so she sends her son to harass you! Truly a slutty, trashy schemer!"

Their spit splattered all over my head and face.

I stared at the ground, almost digging my fingernails into my palms until they bled.

Thinking of Mom, no matter how awful it felt, I had to endure.

Brandon didn't join in the insults. After a moment of thought, he pointed towards the door.

"I can take you, but not that suitcase."

I looked up abruptly.

"Staring at me won't help. Your mom is rotten and worthless, and her things are the same! I find them disgusting!"

Brandon's face was devoid of expression.

I wanted to say.

Mom isn't dirty.

She's right there in that suitcase, but none of them believed me.

I didn't hesitate.

I knelt down abruptly, bowing my head to him.

*Thump-thump*, the sounds echoed like thunder in the police station lobby.

Brandon froze for a second, then his expression turned utterly mortified.

He pointed at me, squeezing a few words through gritted teeth.

"So young, and already resorting to blackmail?"




I stayed silent, just repeatedly hitting my head against the floor.

Blood flowed down my forehead and into my eyes, blurring Brandon's face.

But I would never leave Mom behind.