“Why do you not examine the house first?” he suggested.
Interest overcame me, and I agreed. The house was small but comfortable.
The space appeared filled with recollections. Mom’s stitching equipment sat organized precisely, her aged machine remained positioned there. Stacks of cloth sat piled in the corner, awaiting transformation.
I discovered framed pictures of her and Oliver, both appearing youthful and joyful. They grinned back at me from the photos.
My mother, passionate and dignified, had fled because of one false letter. She had concealed the reality all those years. But Oliver… he had not pursued her. He continued forward, wed another woman, and provided another daughter the existence I never experienced.
This thought burdened me greatly as I heard a vehicle arrive outside. Oliver and Grace walked into the house silently.
We sat there together in heavy quiet.
“We should release her ashes,” I finally said softly.
We performed this task together. As I observed the ashes float into the breeze, something changed within me. The rage I had held began to disappear.
Grace gently held me close. “I apologize. I believe it is time for me to return to my family. It is your chance to learn about our father.”
“Thank you, Grace,” I finally said quietly.
She offered me a gentle smile. “I hope we can overcome this.”
As she departed, I examined the materials and the stitching machine. It was time to pursue my aspirations to create my designs. And with my father beside me, we possessed all the time we required to build the family we never experienced.
