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tried to understand her mother’s rants. Mary’s eyes were bloodshot and her disheveled appearance told Layla that she was drunk, but hallucinating? Or having a bad dream maybe?
    “Oh, God—don’t rape me—please—don’t…”
    When her mother continued to scream and yell while trying to push herself into a corner of the couch, Layla finally realized that her mother wasn’t merely imagining stuff. She was reliving a horrific time of her life, the night she was raped in a dark alley on her way home from her job, then was left lying on the ground. A month later, she discovered that she was pregnant and since she didn’t believe in getting an abortion because of her strict Catholic upbringing, she had Layla and raised her on her own. But not without the trauma of being a victim of rape…not without silently resenting a rape-conceived child, reminding Layla on more than one occasion how she looked so much like her father, and nothing like her, except of course, for her hair.
    While Layla never made light of her mother’s experience that night, the life she knew growing up with the single parent, Mary, was extremely difficult. Yes, her mother was a victim, but she, Layla, became the forgotten victim.
    Layla ran a hand over her barely-there hair. With this new haircut, she probably looked more like her father, the man who still preyed on Mary’s peace of mind, even after all these years. “Mom, it’s me.”
    Her mother continued to shriek in a loud voice. “Get away. Go away. Leave me alone!”
    Seeing her so distressed, Layla didn’t think there was any point talking to her. She ran to the door and picked up her keys from the bowl. After opening the door, she rushed out and banged the door shut.
    Immediately, Mary’s screams stopped.
    Tears poured down Layla’s cheeks as she realized that her mother linked her with the man who raped her. It’d been too overwhelming a thought for her to make peace with it. She’d lost her one and only connection with her mother—her hair that her mother prized.
    Now, she didn’t have anything in common with her own mother anymore. Layla realized she was trapped in a much bigger bind than she originally assumed and she didn’t have any idea if she would ever get back to having a normal life again.

 
     
    Chapter Four
     
    The cost of not following your heart, is spending the rest of your life wishing you had. ~Amanda Helm
     
    Clint Collins strolled into the hospital, feeling haggard and tired. He’d barely reached his apartment when he got an emergency call. Of course, he didn’t have any option but to turn right back and attend to his patient. He loved his job and enjoyed interacting with young children while helping them get on with their lives. The sad part was Clint hated it when his patients lost their battle with death. “Are his parents here?” he asked the receptionist.
    “No, Dr. Collins. They’re on their way.”
    “I’ll be in the room with him. When they come, send them straight in.”
    “Room 241, sir? Patient’s name is Ethan Thomas, right?”
    He sighed, ran a hand through his hair that probably already stood up in straight spikes, and nodded. Dread settled in his heart. “Yes, that’s right.”
    Although he noticed the tall, svelte, yet voluptuous woman who stood with her back to him, he didn’t pay her much attention as he strode towards his patient’s room. He hated this part of his job. Even after years of experience, he couldn’t get used to this aspect of medicine. He wanted each of his patients to go home, healthy and happy. Pushing open the door, he walked inside and held the hand of the boy who was already in a deep coma.
    Tears gathered in his eyes, but he hastily blinked them away. When the parents came in, he comforted them and stayed there until the Ethan stopped breathing. Clint noted the time of death in the chart. “I’m deeply sorry.”
    The mother was crying and incapable of speech.
    The father put his hand on Clint’s