CHRYSANTHEMUM

CHAPTER 3

THE THINGS MOTHERS HIDE

‎

By the time Hepzibah returned home, the sun was already beginning to soften.

She balanced the empty water container against her hip as she walked through the compound, Shirley's words still playing repeatedly in her mind.

‎You can't keep waiting for your father to give you permission to become who you want to be.

‎She hated how much those words had affected her.

‎Maybe because they were true.

‎She looked down at the flyer tucked safely inside her blouse.

‎Winifred's fashion house.

‎A place where she could learn.

‎A place where her drawings might actually mean something.

‎For the first time, the possibility of having a future that belonged to her didn't feel completely impossible.

‎But then reality returned.

‎Her father.

‎Hepzibah sighed.

‎She pushed open the door and walked into the house.

‎"You're back?"

‎Her mother's voice came from the kitchen.

‎"Yes, Mum."

‎"Did you go for your rehearsal?"

‎Hepzibah froze.

‎She had forgotten about the lie.

‎"Yes."

‎Clara looked at her for a moment.

‎There was something about the way her mother looked at her that made Hepzibah uncomfortable.

‎It was as though she knew.

‎But Clara said nothing.

‎"Go and drop the water first."

‎Hepzibah nodded and disappeared.

‎Later that evening, the family gathered for dinner.

‎Mr. Thompson was still away.

‎The atmosphere was noticeably lighter without him.

‎Daryl was laughing loudly at something Jason had said. Greyton was arguing with Carl over the radio, while Clara moved between the kitchen and dining area, serving everyone.

‎Hepzibah sat quietly.

‎She couldn't stop thinking about the flyer.

‎She had hidden it beneath her mattress.

‎Every few minutes, she found herself wondering whether she should tell her mother.

‎She looked at Clara.

‎"Mum?"

‎"Hmm?"

‎"Can I ask you something?"

‎Clara turned toward her.

‎"Of course."

‎"Do you think... someone can actually become successful from a talent they discovered themselves?"

‎Clara stopped moving.

‎For a moment, she simply stared at her daughter.

‎"Why are you asking?"

‎"No reason."

‎Clara smiled faintly.

‎"There's always a reason behind a question like that."

‎Hepzibah looked down at her plate.

‎"What if someone is good at something, but nobody believes it can become anything?"

‎Clara's expression changed.

‎She pulled out the chair beside her and sat.

‎"Then the person shouldn't stop believing in themselves just because other people don't see what they see."

‎Hepzibah swallowed.

‎"Even if the person has no money?"

‎Clara's smile disappeared.

‎"Especially then."

‎The answer came quietly.

‎Hepzibah looked at her mother.

‎There was something in her voice.

‎Something deeper than encouragement.

‎"Mum..."

‎"Hmm?"

‎"Did you ever have something you were good at?"

‎Clara's fingers tightened around the edge of her wrapper.

‎The question seemed to catch her off guard.

‎"Why would you ask that?"

‎"I don't know. I just want to know."

‎Clara looked away.

‎For several seconds, she said nothing.

‎Then she laughed softly.

‎"Everybody has something they are good at."

‎"That's not what I asked."

‎Clara looked back at her.

‎Hepzibah smiled.

‎"You didn't answer me."

‎Her mother sighed.

‎"You ask too many questions."

‎"Because you never tell me anything."

‎That made Clara laugh.

‎But the laughter didn't last.

‎Her eyes became distant.

‎"When I was your age, I used to draw."

‎Hepzibah's smile disappeared.

‎"You did?"

‎Clara nodded.

‎"I loved drawing."

‎"What did you draw?"

‎"Everything."

‎She smiled at the memory.

‎"People. Houses. Flowers. Clothes. Anything I could put on paper."

‎Hepzibah stared at her mother.

‎"You drew clothes too?"

‎"Sometimes."

‎Clara looked down at her hands.

‎"But nobody thought it was important."

‎"Why?"

‎"Because I was a girl."

‎The words landed heavily.

‎Hepzibah suddenly understood.

‎Her mother continued.

‎"My parents believed girls needed to learn how to cook, clean and prepare themselves for marriage. School wasn't even considered important enough for me."

‎Hepzibah's eyes softened.

‎"So you stopped drawing?"

‎"No."

‎Clara smiled sadly.

‎"I hid it."

‎That single sentence silenced Hepzibah.

‎"Why?"

‎"Because after some time, you start believing what people tell you about yourself."

‎She paused.

‎"Eventually, I stopped thinking about what I could become."

‎Hepzibah felt something tighten in her chest.

‎"Then you got married."

‎Clara nodded.

‎"And everything changed."

‎Hepzibah looked at her mother for a long moment.

‎Suddenly, the woman she'd always known as her quiet, submissive mother seemed different.

‎There was a part of Clara she had never known.

‎A part that had once dreamed.

‎A part that had been buried.

‎"Mum..."

‎Clara looked at her.

‎"I don't want you to become like me."

‎Hepzibah's eyes filled with tears.

‎"I know."

‎"No."

‎Clara reached across the table and held her hand.

‎"I mean it, Zibah."

‎Her voice trembled.

‎"I don't want you to wake up one day and realize you spent your entire life living the life somebody else chose for you."

‎Hepzibah squeezed her mother's hand.

‎"But what if Dad doesn't allow me?"

‎Clara looked toward the doorway.

‎Her voice dropped.

‎"Then we find another way."

‎Hepzibah stared at her.

‎Another way.

‎Those words stayed with her long after dinner.

‎---

‎That night, everyone was asleep.

‎Everyone except Hepzibah.

‎She lay on her bed staring at the ceiling.

‎After several minutes, she reached beneath her mattress and pulled out Winifred's flyer.

‎She turned on her phone.

‎The number was still there.

‎Her thumb hovered over it.

‎Should she call?

‎She couldn't.

‎Not yet.

‎She opened her gallery instead.

‎Hundreds of sketches filled the screen.

‎Faces.

‎Dresses.

‎Shoes.

‎Random drawings.

‎Ideas she had never shown anyone.

‎She stopped at one particular sketch.

‎A long, elegant gown.

‎She had drawn it weeks ago after seeing a dress online.

‎At the time, she'd thought nothing of it.

‎Now she stared at it differently.

‎Maybe Shirley was right.

‎Maybe her drawings weren't just a way to escape reality.

‎Maybe they were the beginning of something.

‎Her phone suddenly buzzed.

‎Hepzibah nearly dropped it.

‎A notification.

‎She stared at the screen.

‎It wasn't a message.

‎It was a comment on one of her old sketches.

‎Unknown account:

‎"You should never stop drawing."

‎Hepzibah frowned.

‎She clicked the profile.

‎No picture.

‎No posts.

‎No followers.

‎Nothing.

‎Just a username she didn't recognize.

‎She immediately backed out.

‎Her heart began beating faster.

‎Someone else had noticed her drawings.

‎But who?

‎She locked her phone.

‎Then unlocked it again.

‎She checked the comment.

‎It was gone.

‎Hepzibah froze.

‎She refreshed the page.

‎Nothing.

‎The comment had disappeared.

‎She sat upright.

‎"That's impossible."

‎She searched for the account.

‎Nothing.

‎It was as though it had never existed.

‎A chill ran down her spine.

‎Then she heard a faint sound outside her window.

‎A rustle.

‎Hepzibah turned sharply.

‎Her curtains moved slightly.

‎She held her breath.

‎Another rustle.

‎She slowly got out of bed and walked toward the window.

‎She pulled the curtain aside.

‎Nothing.

‎Only darkness.

‎She looked down at the compound.

‎Empty.

‎Or so she thought.

‎Because across the street, beneath the weak glow of a streetlight, a figure stood beside a parked car.

‎Watching the house.

‎Watching her window.

‎Hepzibah couldn't see the person's face.

‎And before she could look properly, the figure stepped into the darkness and disappeared.

‎Hepzibah quickly closed the curtains.

‎Her heart pounded.

‎She had no idea who was watching her.

‎But whoever it was...

‎They knew about her drawings.

‎And they were getting closer.