Before the Bloom
1660 Words
*Chapter Five
Anne woke up before the sun.
She wasn’t sure why. The house was unusually quiet — no hum from the living room, no clink of pots, no muffled footsteps or someone knocking gently on her door. Just the faint glow pushing against the curtains and Marcel’s breath, steady and small from across the hallway.
She stared at the ceiling for a while, listening. Not thinking — just letting the silence settle. It didn’t feel empty. It felt clean.
Then she got up.
---
She tied her hair up into a loose knot,She pulled her sleeves up,and padded into the kitchen barefoot. The tile was cold. She didn’t flinch. Opening the fridge, she stared at the ingredients for a long moment before gathering apples, bananas, a bit of spinach, milk, honey,ice cubes.It didn’t matter what she used — she just needed to start something. She didn’t measure. She just poured, scooped, sliced, and blended.
The blender roared, loud and defiant. Marcel’s tiny footsteps padded into the kitchen soon after.
He rubbed his eyes and stared at the sound like it was a spaceship.
“What’s happening?”
Anne was already pouring four pale green smoothies into mismatched glasses. “Smoothie.”
“For breakfast?” he blinked.
She handed him one. “Try it.”
He took a sip. And grimaced.
“It tastes like grass and toothpaste!”
Anne tilted her head. “In a good way?”
Marcel nodded vigorously. “Like a jungle drink!”
She gave him a half-smile. “Don’t tell Mum I made it.”
---
Rebecca came in minutes later, humming under her breath. She stopped when she saw the glasses lined on the table.
“Anne?”
“School assignment,” Anne said before she could ask.
Rebecca blinked. “What kind of assignment?”
“Home Economics. Something about healthy routines.”
Rebecca picked up a glass, sipped carefully, then paused.
“…Not bad.”
Marcus walked in buttoning his cuff. “You’re all up early.”
“Anne made smoothies,” Rebecca said.
He raised an eyebrow. “Did she?”
Anne pushed a glass toward him. He took a cautious sip.
“Interesting,” he muttered.
“It’s sharp because I misjudged the banana-to-spinach ratio,” Anne said casually.
Everyone drank. They didn’t compliment it. They didn’t complain either.
And Anne didn’t leave the table early for once.
---
The day bloomed slowly. Anne washed the blender. Marcel danced in the hallway with headphones too big for his ears. Rebecca was in the living room with her laptop open and three notebooks spread across the cushions.
She was making lists.
She muttered things like, “Cape Coast or Dakar? Ugh, visa durations…”
Anne leaned against the wall silently, watching.
“You’re really planning this,” Marcus’s voice came from behind.
Rebecca didn’t look up. “Yes.”
“You’re actually going to leave the country. On your own.”
“Not forever.”
“I never thought you were serious.”
“That’s on you.”
“That’s not what we agreed on, Rebecca. We had a deal. You said you’d stay.”
“I said I’d love. I never said I’d disappear into four walls forever.”
Marcus exhaled. “Rebecca. This is not the time. The kids are still growing.You’ll miss birthdays. Holidays. Anne just resumed school.”
“That’s the exact reason it is the time. They’re finally finding their feet. I want to find mine too.”
“This travel thing — buying beads and masks, running a blog — it’s unrealistic.”
Rebecca stiffened. “It’s not just a blog. I want to study cultures, work with artisans, promote ethical trade. Connect people to heritage. Document stories.”
“And be gone for how long?”
“Three weeks. Maybe four.”
“Unacceptable.”
Anne had entered quietly. She stood at the edge of the living room, listening.
“You’re their mother,” Marcus continued.
“I know.”
“And I’m your husband.”
Rebecca’s voice dropped. “I know that too.”
“Then why don’t I feel considered in this?”
“Because you haven’t asked what I want since before Anne was born.”
That landed with a sharp silence.
Then Anne spoke.
“She’s not abandoning us.”
They both turned.
“She’s not running away. She’s reaching forward. And you should let her.”
Marcus blinked. “Anne…”
“She’s allowed to want things.”
Anne stepped into the room.
“She blends into the walls every day — for years. You never noticed. You never thanked her. She makes sure this house doesn’t fall apart, and now she wants to live. You should be proud.”
Rebecca had gone still. Marcus’s mouth opened, then closed again.
Anne crossed her arms. “Also… the smoothie needed more banana.”
Then she turned and walked out.
---
For weeks, nothing more was said about it. Rebecca didn’t bring up her plans. Marcus didn’t ask. But Anne noticed the way they looked at each other had softened. The edge was gone. Silence had turned into space.
Until one quiet evening, Rebecca walked into the kitchen with a smile Anne hadn’t seen before.
“He texted me,” she said.
Anne raised an eyebrow.
She handed her the phone.
> Go do your thing. I’ll hold the fort. Just come back with stories.
Anne smiled faintly.
The kitchen filled with light that didn’t come from the sun.
“Are you going to pack your smile with your suitcase?” she asked.
Rebecca laughed. “I might have to.”
---
The weeks that followed were full of paperwork, emails, and last-minute bookings. Names of countries floated through the air like music — Rwanda, Ghana, Tanzania, Kenya. Rebecca printed maps. Samantha helped her label folders. Marcel helped by drawing fake airport signs.
Anne sat by the window sometimes, just watching her mother beam.
“You’re glowing,” she said once.
“What are you bringing back?”
Rebecca blinked. “Stories. Maybe beads. Definitely fabric.”
Anne looked at her. “Bring one with red in it.”
Rebecca beamed.
---
---
Uncle Vincent was out of town.
One evening, Anne’s phone buzzed. She stared at it, then answered.
"Well, well," his voice rang, "if it isn’t the Empress of Cold Smoothies."
"You heard about that?"
"Marcel gave me a full review. He called it 'grass ice cream.'"
"He liked it. That’s all that matters."
"You sound brighter. Have they replaced you with an Anne clone?"
"Just evolving."
"Dangerous."
She paused. "You didn’t miss me."
"I missed being missed by you. Does that count?"
She rolled her eyes. "You missed my smoothie."
"True. I’d pay to suffer through it myself."
She told him about school — not in plain terms, but through metaphor.
"It’s like sitting at a feast with invisible food. Everyone is pretending to eat. But I think I’ve found the salt."
"Anne... that’s oddly beautiful."
"That’s oddly who I am."
“I’m coming back soon. Save me some metaphor juice.”
“And a blender. Yours died.”
“I’ll send it flowers.”
“You should send them to Samantha. She’s been your substitute.”
“Oh, has she?”
They both stayed quiet for a while. Then she ended with, "Come back. You owe me a blender."
---
Vincent called again days later. Samantha answered.
“I’ve been meaning to call,” he said.
“So you finally meant it?”
“I need an update. On the flowerbed. And the household. And—”
“—And on Rebecca, whom you’ve already called three times this week?”
Vincent chuckled. “Busted.”
Samantha leaned against the wall. “Anne’s changing. Slowly. Like a sunrise in winter.”
“She told me a flower metaphor.”
“Sounds about right.”
“I was thinking… when I get back, we could meet up. The library, maybe. Or that new cafe.”
She smirked. “You mean a date?”
“I was giving you a loophole to pretend it wasn’t.”
“Next time, ask properly.”
“I will.”
“I might say yes.”
“You already did.”
---
One Saturday, Samantha found Anne in the backyard beside their flowerbed.
Sprouts had grown over the old patch — blue petals, curled leaves, too many weeds. Anne was crouched beside it, pulling them one by one.
Samantha joined her, kneeling slowly.
They worked in silence.
Then Samantha spoke. “It’s growing well.”
Anne pulled out a vine. “Despite the chaos.”
“Exactly.”
A breeze passed.
“Some people don’t notice the weeds,” Anne said.
“And some pull them out without flinching,” Samantha replied.
They kept working.
No thanks. No speeches. Just hands in the soil, and something steady between them.
---
Richard sat in his room with a pen between his teeth.
His sister knocked once and walked in.
“Laundry,” she said, tossing socks on the bed.
He flipped his notebook closed.
“You’re writing again.”
“Observation.”
“Poetry?”
He paused. “Maybe.”
She raised an eyebrow.
He opened the page. Cleared his throat.
> **The Peacock**
>
> It does not bend.
> Its eyes are straight — proud and still.
> A sculpture of silence.
>
> Its feathers hold fire — not loud,
> But patient, waiting.
>
> It walks like it owns the sun.
>
> And if it shatters,
> You’ll find the shards too beautiful to sweep away.
"You’re writing about her again."
Richard smirked. "It’s a peacock."
"A proud, quiet, fire-holding, beautiful peacock."
He shrugged. "If the metaphor fits."
"Have you told her?"
"She doesn’t speak enough to know."
Samantha folded her arms. "Maybe she’s waiting to be asked."
He smiled. Then went back to writing.
---
- Writer
