The PI's office was a fortress of secrets, dimly lit and lined with shelves of leather-bound tomes that smelled of must and old money. Across from Can sat the private investigator—a human shadow, features obscured by the backlit glow of the afternoon sun piercing through the blinds.
"As you know, Yigit's past is a tapestry woven with deception," the PI began, his voice a gravelly contralto that betrayed years of cigarettes and scotch.
Can thought back to all the evidence they'd found: photographs of Yigit, captured in moments of charm and duplicity; bank statements, legal documents, testimonies—all painting the portrait of a man who had swindled hearts as deftly as he had pocketbooks.
"Fraud... embezzlement... How could he have hidden this?" Can's voice cracked with a mixture of anger and disbelief.
"Charm is the confidence man's camouflage," the PI replied with a nonchalant shrug. "And your mother—" he paused, letting the word hang between them like an unsheathed blade.
"Go on," Can urged, his voice a low growl.
"Her involvement was... instrumental. A facilitator, if you will."
"Damn her," Can spat, slamming his fist onto the table. Anger surged through him, hot and unyielding, but beneath it lurked a well of sorrow for the mother he thought he knew.
The next day brought more darkness than light. Word had spread like wildfire—Yigit kidnapped, his captors merciless. Can heard about the ordeal, his complex emotions tangling like thorns.
"Should've seen it coming," the PI mused when they reconvened. His eyes, hawk-like, missed nothing.
"Nobody deserves that," Can said, though his conviction wavered. He thought of Sanem, of the life they were building, free from shadows. Could he truly wish harm upon another, even one so undeserving of sympathy?
"Justice has many faces," the PI remarked cryptically.
And then there was Huma. News of her downfall cascaded through their social circles with glee and gossip. She stood alone now, her empire of manipulation crumbled to dust. Can saw her once, a fleeting image: a queen dethroned, her elegance unravelled, leaving behind only the bare, vulnerable threads of her humanity.
"Mother..." he whispered to himself, the word tasting of betrayal and pity. His heart ached. For all her faults, she was still blood. His blood.
***
Can Divit stood at the edge of the cliff, his eyes fixed on the churning waves below. The spray painted a fine mist over his weathered leather jacket and tousled dark hair. He had always found solace in nature's raw beauty and untamed power. Yet today, the wild panorama before him mirrored the tumultuous thoughts crashing within.
"Are you ready to take the next step?" Can murmured to himself, his voice barely rising above the roar of the ocean. The question wasn't about the precipice on which he stood but the emotional leap he was about to take. Seeking therapy felt like an admission of defeat, yet he knew it was the only way to confront the labyrinth his mother, Huma, had woven around his heart.
With a determined exhale that mingled with the salty air, Can turned his back on the ocean and made his way to his Jeep. The drive to Dr. Demir's office was a quiet one, punctuated only by the occasional hum of passing cars and the rhythmic tapping of his fingers on the steering wheel—a staccato beat to his racing thoughts.
Can stood before the weathered oak door, his hand hovering over the brass doorknob, tarnished from years of turning. It didn't look like the entryway to revelation, yet here he was—on the threshold of confronting a past that had ensnared him in a web spun by the very person who should have shielded him from harm. His mother, Huma.
"Come in, please." A voice emerged from behind the door—a subtle beacon guiding him beyond the precipice of indecision.
Stepping into the room, Can's eyes took a moment to adjust to the soft light that spilled through the gauzy curtains. Dr Demir's office was an oasis of calm, walls adorned with abstract paintings that whispered serenity rather than screamed for attention. A bookshelf brimmed with thick volumes on human psychology and emotions, each spine promising some insight into the labyrinth of the mind.
"Mr. Divit, I presume?" Dr Demir said, rising from his chair. He was a middle-aged man with kind eyes and a demeanour that seemed to stitch comfort into the very air. His voice was calm, grounding. He extended his hand, and Can took it, noting the firmness of his grip. "Welcome, Mr Divit,"
"Please, call me Can," he said, trying to mask the tremor in his voice with a half-smile.
"Of course, Can. Please, make yourself comfortable." Dr Demir gestured towards a plush armchair. As Can sank into it, he felt the day's tension begin to ease, the chair seeming to cradle his fraught nerves.
"Thank you." Can's response was automatic as he sank into the plush armchair across from Dr Demir. The fabric was warm and inviting, unlike the cold, meticulous décor of his mother's sitting room where every cushion was a calculated placement, every smile a masked strategy.
"Would you like something to drink? Water, perhaps?" Dr Demir offered.
"Water would be good, thanks." Can watched as the therapist filled two glasses, noting the steadiness of his hand—a stark contrast to the tremor in his own when he thought about the confrontation awaiting him with Huma.
"Here you go." Dr Demir handed him the glass, their fingers brushing momentarily, a human connection that felt grounding.
"Thanks," Can murmured, taking a sip and feeling the cool liquid trace a path down his throat, quenching more than just physical thirst.
Dr Demir settled back into his chair, his posture open, attentive. "So, Can, what brings you here today?"
Can set the glass on the side table, his gaze drifting to the window where a single leaf fluttered on its journey to the ground. Fall—a time of shedding. Perhaps it was time for him to let go, too.
"It's... my mother," Can began, his words hesitant but gaining momentum like a stone rolling downhill. "She's always been a part of my life, but not in the way she should have been. She left me with my dad when I was young, and now..."
He faltered, the images of Huma's manipulations rippling through his thoughts—the lies, the deceit, the ploys designed to sever the threads between him and Sanem.
"Take your time," Dr Demir said gently. "This is a safe place for you to explore those feelings."
Can's hands clenched involuntarily, his knuckles mirroring the whitened foam of the sea he left behind. "I've always known she was... manipulative. But I've reached a point where I can't separate the truth from her lies."
"Understanding is the first step towards healing," Dr Demir said, nodding encouragingly. "And seeking help shows immense strength, not weakness."
Can looked up, meeting Dr. Demir's steady gaze. For the first time in what felt like an eternity, he felt seen—beyond the façade of the successful photographer, beyond the scars of abandonment and betrayal.
"She's tried to ruin the best thing in my life... Sanem," Can admitted, the name tasting like salvation on his lips. "And I'm tired of being a pawn in her games. I need to confront her, but I don't know how to do it without losing myself in the process."
Can drew in a deep breath, as if readying himself for battle. Yet the enemy was not one to be felled by force—it was the shadow of betrayal that loomed over his relationships, the spectre of distrust that haunted his steps.
"Confrontation can be a powerful step towards healing," Dr Demir nodded, his voice a tether to Can's fraying resolve. "But it's also important to understand what you're feeling and why. To see the patterns in her behaviour—and in yours."
Patterns. Yes, there were patterns, woven so intricately into his psyche that they felt like part of his very fabric. But maybe, just maybe, with Dr Demir's help, he could begin to unpick those threads.
"Understanding is the first step," Can agreed, his eyes meeting Dr Demir's. There was no judgment there, only the promise of guidance through the uncharted territory of his pain.
"Then let's start there," Dr Demir suggested, his voice steady and reassuring.
The session unfolded with Can tentatively navigating the waters of his past, each revelation a ripple expanding across the surface of his consciousness. Dr Demir offered no judgment, only unwavering support, as Can delved into the depths of his psyche.
"Sometimes," Can confessed, his voice barely above a murmur, "I feel like I'm still that little boy waiting for his mother to come back. And now, I don't know if I want her to or not."
"Your feelings are valid, Can. It's okay to be confused, to be angry, to grieve for what you needed and didn't receive."
As the hour drew to a close, Can stood, feeling less like the man who had entered the room, burdened by years of unresolved emotions. Dr Demir handed him a card.
"Same time on Thursday?" he asked, his tone both professional and kind.
"Same time," Can agreed, pocketing the card like a talisman, feeling the weight of his mother's manipulations begin to lift, replaced by something else entirely—determination.
He stepped out of the office, a subtle change taking root within him—a flicker of hope that perhaps, he could finally find his way out of the shadows cast by Huma's intricate web.
***
The room was a cocoon, walls lined with books that whispered secrets of the mind. A large window allowed the sunlight to cascade in, partitioning the floor into realms of shadow and light. Can sat across from Dr Demir, his hands clasped together like a fortress around his thoughts. The air carried a symphony of silence, punctuated only by the soft ticking of a clock—each second a step further from the past.
"Can, last time we talked about understanding your feelings," Dr Demir began, his pen poised above the notepad, ready to capture Can's elusive psyche. " "Can you tell me what you're feeling right now?" Dr Demir's voice broke through the stillness of the therapy session, pulling Can back from the precipice of his spiralling thoughts.
"Anticipation," Can said, his voice steady despite the turmoil inside. "Like I'm on the edge of a cliff, and there's no turning back."
"Cliffs can be daunting, but they also offer a perspective we can't see from the ground," Dr Demir said thoughtfully. "What does this perspective show you about your relationship with your mother?"
"Clarity," Can replied, his eyes fixed on the patterned rug beneath his feet, tracing the intricate designs as if they could lead him to answers. "I see patterns now, the manipulations... It's like waking up from a bad dream, only to realise it was all real."
"Understanding those patterns is a powerful tool. It can help you navigate through this confrontation with awareness rather than anger. What patterns have you noticed?"
"I suppose there is one—defensiveness. I've built walls, high and thick, to protect myself." Can replied, unclasping his hands to let the words flow. His gaze drifted to the window where the light played tag on the sill.
"And how do you feel now?"
"Empowered," Can acknowledged, allowing himself a small nod. "But also...angry. It's hard to shake the feeling of betrayal."
"Anger is natural," Dr Demir reassured him, leaning forward with folded hands. "It's how we handle that anger that defines us."
"Tell me about the moments when you feel most affected by your mother's actions," The therapist prompted, his pen poised above the notepad.
"Sometimes, it's like I'm drowning in her expectations," Can began, his gaze drifting to the window where the world outside moved oblivious to his internal storm. "She has this way of twisting things—rewriting reality until I start doubting my own memories."
"Memory can be a tricky thing," Dr Demir nodded, "especially when there's emotional interference. Let's explore those doubts."
As they spoke, Can recounted instances, his fingers tracing the grain of the wooden armrests as if to ground himself in the tangible world. He divulged into stories of Huma, each one peeling back layers of her influence. They were like scenes from a film he had watched too many times, yet only now was he seeing them without the colouration of her narrative.
"Did you ever feel like you could meet her expectations?" Dr Demir asked, his voice steady, a lighthouse in Can's foggy recollection.
"Never." The word hung in the air, heavy with resignation. "It was like aiming for a target that kept moving. Every time I thought I was close, she would... shift the goalposts."
"Shift how?" Dr Demir prodded gently.
"Subtle disapproval or outright criticism," Can replied, his voice strained, eyes reflecting a well of unshed tears. "It was always about control."
"Control is often about fear," Dr Demir murmured, setting his notepad aside. "Fear of loss, of inadequacy. It can lead people to manipulate those around them."
"Does understanding that make it easier to forgive?" Can asked, a thread of hope weaving through his words.
"Understanding isn't the same as excusing," Dr Demir clarified. "It can be a step toward healing, though."
"Maybe," Can sighed, looking inward, feeling the faint stirrings of clarity amidst the chaos of his emotions.
"Let's focus on how you've managed these feelings so far," Dr Demir suggested, leaning forward, his presence reassuring.
"Running," Can admitted, a rueful smile touching his lips. "Literally and metaphorically. Photography helped. And anger... anger was a shield."
"Anger can be protective," Dr Demir acknowledged, "but it can also weigh you down. Perhaps it's time to set some of it aside?"
"Maybe," Can echoed again, feeling the weight of years beginning to lift, molecule by molecule. "I used to think showing vulnerability was weakness, but here, with you, it feels like... strength."
"Vulnerability is the birthplace of courage," Dr Demir offered a warm, affirming smile. "You're showing immense strength, Can. How does that feel?"
"Scary," Can confessed, a laugh escaping him, tinged with irony. "But liberating. Like I'm finally starting to breathe after being underwater for so long."
"Breathing is good," Dr Demir said, the corner of his mouth turning up in an empathetic smile. "Let's keep working on that."
***
With each session, Can peeled back layers of years spent under Huma's shadow, each revelation a petal falling from a once-thwarted bloom. He recounted the moments when praise was bartered for obedience, affection traded for compliance.
"Sometimes, it felt like walking on a tightrope," Can admitted, his hands miming the precarious balance. "One wrong step, and I'd plummet into her disfavour."
"Did that fear ever manifest in other areas of your life?" Dr Demir asked, leaning forward, anchoring Can with his steady gaze.
"Everywhere," Can confessed, rubbing his temple as if to erase the memories etched there. "Even with Sanem... There were times when I expected her to be just another version of my mother—manipulative, demanding."
"Has therapy changed that perspective?"
"Immensely." Can's lips curved into a small, hopeful smile. "I'm learning to trust, to give Sanem—and myself—the benefit of doubt."
"Trust is a foundation easily cracked by manipulation," Dr Demir acknowledged. "How has your mother's behaviour affected you recently?"
"Like a puppeteer pulling strings," Can said, his voice strained. The shadows in the room seemed to dance mockingly at the confession. "I always prided myself on being independent, but she... she found ways to get under my skin, to make me question my own decisions."
"Understanding that is vital," Dr Demir noted. "Acknowledging the impact gives you power over it."
"Power..." Can mused, a flicker of something fierce awakening in his eyes. He stood up abruptly, pacing the room, each step a drumbeat of newfound resolve. "I let her dictate the rhythm of my life for too long. It's time I compose my own score."
"Indeed. And how do you feel now, after recognising these patterns?"
"Clearer," Can breathed out, stopping by the window, the light haloing him like a promise of dawn after a long night. "It's as if I've been looking through a fogged mirror, and it's finally starting to clear."
"Clarity can be both liberating and daunting," Dr Demir remarked, writing down a note. "But you're facing it head-on, Can. That's commendable."
"Thanks to you," Can said, turning to face Dr Demir with gratitude shimmering in his eyes, tempered by the steel of determination. "You've given me the tools to dismantle the walls I've built."
"Remember, the strength is yours," Dr Demir reminded him. "I am merely helping you to harness it."
Can nodded, absorbing the weight of those words. The pattern of light shifted as clouds passed outside, casting an ephemeral glow on the room—a subtle reminder that change was the only constant. Can was changing, evolving. With each session, he untangled the web of his mother's manipulations, reclaiming the narrative of his life, one thread at a time.
***
"Can," Dr Demir's voice was calm and steady, "Let's talk about what you're feeling right now."
"Anticipation," Can replied, pausing to rub the bridge of his nose. "And... fear. It's like standing on the edge of a cliff knowing I have to jump."
"Is it fear of confronting your mother or fear of what comes after?"
"Both." Can's voice was a low whisper, a confession to the shadows cast by the dim light of his desk lamp. "It feels like preparing for battle."
"Remember, this confrontation is not about winning a war," Dr Demir counselled, his tone gentle yet firm. "It's about setting boundaries and reclaiming your autonomy."
"Exactly," Can said, his eyes narrowing as he opened another email, its contents confirming his worst suspicions. "I can't let her pull the strings anymore."
"Good. Use that resolve. But also, ask yourself: what are you clinging to when it comes to forgiving?"
"Forgiving seems like letting her off the hook," Can admitted, his hands clenching into fists. "Anger used to fuel me," his gaze flickering from the screen to meet Dr Demir's calm presence. "Now, I want to use clarity. But forgiveness...that's still out of reach."
"Forgiveness isn't about exoneration," Dr Demir countered gently. "It's about freeing yourself from the hold these emotions have on you.
"Freeing myself..." Can murmured, considering the weight of those words. He imagined confronting Huma, not as the wounded child he'd been, but as the man he was becoming—one who understood the games she played and refused to be a pawn any longer.
"Forgiveness isn't for her—it's for you. To release the anger that binds you."
"Anger..." Can mused, his gaze drifting to his screen saver, a photo of him and Sanem laughing together, a stark contrast to the storm brewing within him.
"Let's explore that," Dr Demir suggested. "When do these feelings surface the most?"
"Whenever I think about how she treated Sanem, how she..." Can trailed off, the words catching in his throat.
"Go on."
"Manipulated us. Lied. All because she thought Sanem wasn't good enough."
"Your mother's actions touched on your core values—integrity, respect, love," Dr Demir pointed out. "It's understandable to feel betrayed."
"Betrayed," Can repeated, letting the word resonate within the room. He closed his eyes momentarily, taking a deep breath. When he reopened them, they held a glint of clarity.
"Can, let's delve into the root cause of your anger," Dr Demir suggested, leaning forward in his chair. "It seems to stem from feeling betrayed by your mother."
Can's gaze shifted, his brows furrowing as he traced invisible patterns on the surface of the desk. " was just a child when my mother left. I couldn't understand why she took Emre with her but not me. I needed her, but she was gone. My father was always busy building up his advertising agency, leaving me with nannies who would eventually leave because of my anger issues. II felt abandoned and unwanted, even by those who were paid to care for me. In the end, I begged my father to send me away to boarding school."
Dr Demir observed the pain etched onto Can's face and offered his support. "That must have been incredibly difficult for you."
Can's admission came with a hint of vulnerability, his voice trembling with raw emotion. "Anger was my only shield," he confessed, his words laced with pain. "It kept everyone at bay, but it also left me feeling abandoned and alone in this world. That feeling has followed me like a shadow ever since. I can't let myself get close to anyone emotionally; I'm always on guard, waiting for the inevitable betrayal.
But I channelled that anger into something productive - exercise. I became obsessed with building my body, pushing myself beyond limits, until I was bigger and stronger than anyone around me. My emotions may have been out of control, but at least I had control over my physical strength."
"And how did this fear and anger affect your relationships?" Dr Demir inquired gently.
Can's eyes flashed with a blend of hurt and acceptance as he reminisced about the past. "They were... complicated," he admitted. "I was with Polen for quite some time, but I never truly devoted myself to her. The physical and emotional distance between us suited me. We would see each other three or four times a year, and the rest of the time we we relied on video calls. I deliberately kept her at a distance so that there was nothing to lose, no risk involved. I didn't have to worry about her leaving me because I never loved her anyway."
"But Sanem," his voice tinged with regret. "I loved her more than anything, but I was terrified. She made me feel like I truly belonged to someone for the first time in my life, and that scared me beyond measure. I couldn't shake the haunting fear that she would eventually leave me, just like my mother did." His fists clench at his sides, knuckles turning white with the force of his emotions. "So I walked away, rather than risk being abandoned once again."
"Leaving her before she had the chance to leave you," Dr Demir summarised.
"Yes, I let my anger override my reasoning."
Dr Demir nodded understandingly. "A defence mechanism," he noted. "But by doing so, you inadvertently perpetuated the cycle of abandonment.
Can's gaze shifted to a distant place, memories resurfacing like ripples on a pond. "I carried this fear within me, this fear of being left behind," he explained, his voice barely above a whisper. "I began to see signs of it in our relationship—innocuous things that would trigger my anxiety."
"Can you give me an example?" Dr Demir gently prompted.
"Her relationship with Yigit. He came into her life at a time when things were going wrong. I had just broken up with her and was planning to go abroad to work. I was working closely with my ex-girlfriend Polen and my mother kept trying to get us back together. And Sanem had just resigned from the agency." He paused, inhaling deeply.
"He saw an opportunity in her vulnerability and showered her with attention, offering her a job and encouraging her to pursue her writing. But I knew deep down that it was all a ploy to win her over, despite his claims of friendship. I knew it was platonic for her, that she saw him as just a friend and someone who helped her yet I was jealous. And even though I was angry with her for withholding the truth from me and had broken up with her, I still loved her and feared losing her to Yigit's manipulations."
Dr Demir leaned back in his chair, his expression thoughtful. "It sounds like you were grappling with conflicting emotions," he observed. "On one hand, you loved Sanem deeply and wanted her to be happy. On the other hand, your fear of abandonment and a desire to protect yourself led to feelings of jealousy and mistrust."
Can nodded, the weight of his actions resting heavily upon him. "I know I made mistakes. I regret pushing her away like that. I thought I was protecting myself from getting hurt, but all I did was hurt both of us in the process."
"Ultimately, that anger only served to distance you from Sanem," Dr Demir pointed out gently. "Your fear of being left behind caused you to project your insecurities onto Sanem," he observed. "Instead of addressing your concerns directly, you pushed her away and let jealousy cloud your judgment. It was a self-fulfilling prophecy."
Can's fingers clenched tightly around a pen, his knuckles turning white. "I didn't want to hurt her," he whispered, his voice filled with remorse.
"Sometimes," Dr Demir said gently, "we hurt others in an attempt to protect ourselves. But it's important to recognise that your actions were driven by fear and not a reflection of your true desires."
A heavy silence filled the room as Can absorbed the truth in Dr Demir's words. Finally, he spoke, his voice laced with determination. "I know I made mistakes, Dr Demir. I pushed Sanem away, hurt her deeply. But I don't want my past to define our future. I don't want to be driven by fear anymore. I want to break this cycle of abandonment and anger."
Dr Demir smiled encouragingly. "That's an important first step, Can. Acknowledging your mistakes, patterns and emotions; understanding their roots, and committing to change is pivotal in reclaiming your narrative. You're on a journey of self-reflection and growth.
"Now, it's time to find a way to heal and rebuild trust within yourself and your relationship with Sanem."
Resolute determination burned in Can's eyes. "I want to reclaim my relationship with Sanem and confront my mother once and for all."
"Can, remember the progress you've made," Dr Demir encouraged. "You're not the same person who started these sessions. You've grown."
"I have," Can acknowledged, a small but sincere smile curving his lips. He stood up, the chair rolling back with a soft whisper against the carpet. He paced three steps, turned, and paced back.
"Confrontation can lead to healing," Dr Demir observed, his voice a steady anchor in the sea of Can's tumultuous thoughts.
"Or it can blow everything apart," Can countered, stopping his pacing to look out the window at the city below, lights twinkling like distant stars.
"True," Dr Demir conceded. "But you're not seeking destruction. You're seeking peace."
"Peace," Can echoed. The word felt foreign, yet achingly desired. He glanced back at the screen, then at the picture of Sanem on his phone, and finally, at his own reflection mirrored in the darkened window.
"Sometimes," Can said slowly, "the hardest battles we fight are the ones that lead us to who we're meant to be."
"Indeed," Dr Demir agreed softly. "And sometimes, those battles require us to look not just outward, but inward."
Can nodded, his profile silhouetted against the glow from the screen.
He was ready to face the past, to confront the future. And in doing so, he would find the strength to forgive—not for Huma, but for himself.
"Can, remember the progress you've made," Dr Demir encouraged. "You're not the same person who started these sessions. You've grown."
"I have," Can acknowledged, a small but sincere smile curving his lips. He stood up, the chair rolling back with a soft whisper against the carpet. He paced three steps, turned, and paced back.
"Confrontation can lead to healing," Dr Demir observed, his voice a steady anchor in the sea of Can's tumultuous thoughts.
"Or it can blow everything apart," Can countered, stopping his pacing to look out the window at the city below, lights twinkling like distant stars.
"True," Dr Demir conceded. "But you're not seeking destruction. You're seeking peace."
The word felt foreign, yet achingly desired. He glanced back at the screen, then at the picture of Sanem, and finally, at his own reflection mirrored in the darkened window.
"Sometimes," Can said slowly, "the hardest battles we fight are the ones that lead us to who we're meant to be."
"Indeed," Dr Demir agreed softly. "And sometimes, those battles require us to look not just outward, but inward."
Can nodded, his profile silhouetted against the glow from the screen. He was ready to face the past, to confront the future. And in doing so, he would find the strength to forgive—not for Huma, but for himself.