A Mighty Quill

Forget me not

There are those rare times when a book is no longer comforting or the new norm isn't all that exciting and all I want is to be at home, curled in bed knowing my mother is right there. Growing up feels like becoming distant which is why I have decided to head home for the weekend.

I don't mind the drive, I get to play my favourite music and sing out loud enough to change whatever mood has descended upon me but when I get home…

I stood outside the front door, my heart pounding with a mix of excitement and confusion. There was another car parked in the driveway that was unfamiliar, a sleek black sedan that seemed out of place in our quiet suburban neighbourhood.

Taking a deep breath, I pushed open the front door and stepped inside.

The familiar scent of my childhood home enveloped me, a comforting blend of cinnamon and vanilla. The clattering of pans echoed from the kitchen, and I could hear my mother's voice, softly singing along to some old tune. It was a sound I hadn't realised I missed until that very moment.

I made my way towards the kitchen, anticipating building with each step. As I entered, I found my mother April standing by the stove, her back turned to me. She was wearing her favourite floral apron, a sign that she was in her element. But something seemed off. Her usually vibrant smile was replaced by a tired expression, and there were dark circles under her eyes.

"Mom?" I called out, my voice filled with concern.

She turned around, her face lighting up as she saw me. "Oh, sweetheart, you're home!" she exclaimed, rushing over to envelop me in a warm hug. "I've missed you so much."

"I've missed you too, Mom," I replied, returning her embrace. "But who's car is that outside? And why are you looking so tired?"

April sighed, her shoulders slumping. "Your dad is here," she confessed, her voice barely above a whisper. "He showed up unexpectedly this morning."

My heart skipped a beat. My parents had divorced when I was just a child, and I hadn't seen my father, Fynne, in years. The memories of their tumultuous relationship still lingered, and I couldn't help but feel a mix of emotions at the news of his arrival.

"Why is he here, Mom?" I asked, trying to keep my voice steady.

April looked down, her hands fidgeting with the hem of her apron. "I invited him over, sweetheart," she replied. "I explained to him that we should talk, try to make amends but do not worry, this is no attempt to salvage anything. I just want to make sure that he is aware of certain things."

I could see the pain etched in her eyes, and my heart ached for her. I knew how much she had struggled to build a life for us after the divorce, how she had poured all her love and energy into raising me. The thought of her being hurt again tore at my soul and yet she brought the very man that caused most of her pain, I didn't understand it but I'm certain she knows and understands exactly what she is doing…

I hope…

"Listen, Mom," I said, taking her hands in mine. "We'll get through this together. Whatever you want, we'll face it head-on. But for now, let's focus on taking care of you. This weekend, it's just going to be you and me, like old times. We'll have one of our wonderful girls' weekends."

A small smile tugged at the corners of her lips, and her eyes sparkled with gratitude. "Thank you, sweetheart," she whispered. "I don't know what I'd do without you."

Over the course of that weekend, we laughed, we cried, and we reminisced about the happy memories we had shared. We curled up on the couch, reading books and sharing stories late into the night. And through it all, I could feel our bond growing stronger.

As the weekend came to an end, I watched my mother's tired face transform into one of resilience and determination. She had faced her past, confronted her fears, and emerged stronger than ever. And I knew that whatever challenges lay ahead, we would face them together.

I wasn't sure if I was homesick or just missing my mother, but in that moment, surrounded by love and the warmth of our shared history, it didn't matter. I had found my home in her embrace, and together, we would navigate the journey of life, one step at a time just like we always do.

Before I left, heading off for campus again Fynne caught me on the way out "I see you received my birthday gift," my burrow frowned "I beg your pardon?" He pointed toward my bag where the quill stuck out and I turned to him "You are the one who bought me the journal and quill?"

I am certain he was trying to just have a conversation but he could have tried sooner all I could manage to say was "Thank you for the gift, it was lovely but if you don't mind, I have a long trip ahead and I can't stay and chat," polite yet dismissive, I placed the bag in the car and headed off back to campus still slightly upset at the circumstances I walked into but more so what I walked out with.

Journal

I had hoped one day Fynne would return but I can't help and be filled with anger. Angry for the loss, angry for the assumption that he could just waltz back in but mostly upset. What did he run after that was more important than our family? I'd like some answers but I doubt they will suffice. He is, who he is. Scorpion grass