Bluebird
817 Words
By the time Mrs. Ellis came to get us, I’d decided that if one more person asked how I was doing, I was going to start answering in percentages.
Forty-three percent.
Maybe fifty on a good day.
People meant well. I knew they did. They just had this look on their faces that made me want to leave the room. Their voices got softer. They touched my shoulder more. They stared a little longer than normal, like I might fall apart if somebody blinked too hard.
My mum died.
I didn’t.
Mrs. Ellis stood by the kitchen door, her hands folded in front of her.
“They’re ready.”
I nodded.
Kathy reached for my empty plate.
“You actually finished it.”
“I know. Shocking.”
“I’m proud of you.”
“I had half a sandwich.”
“It was a very emotional half.”
I rolled my eyes and followed Mrs. Ellis out of the kitchen.
The walk to Mum’s study couldn’t have been more than a minute, but it felt longer today. Maybe because everyone we passed stopped talking for a second before offering that same sad smile.
I started counting them.
By the fourth one, I’d had enough.
If one more person tilted their head at me like a confused puppy, I was going to scream.
The study door was open.
David Morrison was already inside, arranging a few files on the table. Whitney stood beside him with her notebook tucked against her chest. She wasn’t writing anything. She just kept straightening the same pile of papers over and over again.
If she lined those papers up one more time, they were going to organise themselves.
“Good afternoon, Anaya,” she said.
“Whitney.”
That was all either of us had.
Kelvin walked in a second later with a mug in his hand. He took one sip, frowned and looked at the coffee like it had personally offended him.
“It’s cold.”
Kathy shrugged.
“That’s what happens when you forget about it.”
“I didn’t forget.”
“You absolutely forgot.”
“I got distracted.”
“You’ve been saying that since this morning.”
Kelvin looked at the mug again before setting it on the table.
“I still think it’ll taste the same.”
“It won’t,” Kathy said.
“You don’t even drink coffee.”
“I don’t have to. I have common sense.”
I felt myself smiling before I could stop it.
Not because the conversation was particularly funny.
Because it sounded normal.
For thirty whole seconds, nobody was looking at me with pity.
They were arguing about coffee.
I’d take that over sympathy any day.
David waited until everyone had settled before clearing his throat.
“I’ll try not to keep us here too long.”
Nobody answered.
He opened his briefcase and pulled out a cream envelope.
Not the will.
Just an envelope.
He slid it across the table until it stopped in front of me.
“Your mother asked me to give you this before we read her will.”
I looked down at it.
The handwriting hit me before the words did.
Mum’s.
I would’ve known it anywhere.
Across the front she’d written…
My Bluebird.
I smiled.
I couldn’t help it.
“I hated that nickname.”
Kelvin laughed.
“No, you didn’t.”
“I absolutely did.”
“You complained about it every summer.”
“I complained about it every day.”
“And yet every time she called you Bluebird, you answered.”
“Because she was my mum.”
Kathy leaned over to look at the envelope.
“I actually like it.”
“Of course you do.”
“I would’ve called you Bluebird too.”
“I would’ve blocked you.”
“You can’t block people in real life.”
“I could’ve tried.”
For a second… it almost felt like Mum was upstairs.
Working.
Answering emails.
About to walk in and tell Kathy to stop stealing food.
Then I looked down at the envelope again.
That feeling disappeared as quickly as it came.
David spoke quietly.
“She asked that you read it before we continue.”
I nodded.
Nobody rushed me.
Nobody spoke.
For the first time all day, nobody asked if I was okay.
I appreciated that more than they probably realised.
I slipped my finger under the flap and opened the envelope carefully.
Inside were two folded sheets of paper.
I stared at them for a second.
Funny.
I wasn’t scared of what she’d written.
I was scared that these were the last new words I’d ever get from her.
I unfolded the first page.
At the top, in the same neat handwriting I’d seen on birthday cards, lunch notes and shopping lists my entire life, were two simple words.
My Bluebird…
- Writer
