Author's Note:
Thus far, I've had two readers vote for The King's Cursed Bride for Best Fantasy Story for the Fiction Awards. I'm a little scared to ask this of you guys, because asking means hoping and I just hate hoping for something and then being let down, but if you'd consider voting for my story, I'd deeply appreciate it. I'll leave the link to The Fiction Awards below the link for the sneak peek on my profile, should you be interested. 💖
If not that's fine too! And I hope you enjoy the story 😉
Comment Awards: This week's comment is by QueenNyxy! If I promise to write you more of the story, will you not cry? 😉 If you'd like to see her comment, it's on IG.
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Her father had retired, and had it not been for her mother bustling about, the kitchen would have been empty.
Carissa plucked a threadbare rag out of a bucket of sudsy water and scrubbed the table. Her mother disappeared out the door, a bowl of potato shavings in hand. When she returned, she swept the floor.
Once the room was spotless, her mother tossed the broom against the wall, propped her hip on the table, and folded her arms. "You want to speak to me."
Carissa plopped the rag into the bucket. It wasn't a question, but she answered, "I do."
"Then speak, daughter."
'Daughter.' Perhaps all wasn't lost after all. "I need to tell you about why I left. And what happened in Zonah."
And she told her mother everything. That she'd fled to escape a destiny of someone else's making. That she'd lived with a Healer she fancied herself in love with. That she'd worked her fingers raw at a pub. That she'd discovered her curse. That she'd saved a little boy from a fire. That she'd become a nightwoman. That she'd been tossed into the streets. That she'd found the Reaper. That she'd been thrown into the jailhouse.
And then there was the pinnacle of her story: Elon.
When she'd concluded her story of the past month and a half, she felt both empty and whole.
Her fingers were wet from trying to scrape the tears from her cheeks, yet they'd come pouring down regardless. Especially when she spoke of Elon. Carissa hadn't had the courage to watch her mother while she told her story, but now she glanced up. A flurry of emotions flickered across her mother's face.
Perhaps Carissa should tell her mother that if she wanted to criticize her story, she ought to wait until the morning. Never had Carissa poured out this much of herself. Never had she stripped herself enough to reach this point of vulnerability. Never had she told someone her story in its entirety. Not even Elon.
The emptiness inside left her skin feeling like a brittle shell, but she seamed her lips. Even if her mother didn't understand, she loved Carissa, and she would know not to loose her grief and anger on her yet.
Her mother's sigh was long and tired, its fingers rasping against her throat. "That was a story better left untold."
Confusion came first. Then hurt. "What do you mean, mother?"
Her fine nose crinkled. "I'd rather you not call me that."
Pain seeped through her exhaustion, its jagged edges bleeding her.
Her mother's weathered blue eyes flicked to the open shutters. She stared so long that Carissa began to wonder if she ever intended to respond. "When you first disappeared, your father and I assumed something evil had happened to you. Perhaps bandits had raped you and left you for dead. Or maybe a pack of wolves had happened upon you in the forest."
Her mother slapped her palms to the counter, her cool demeanor melting. "We looked for days and days. After a month, we picked ourselves up and moved on. And now I discover that you didn't disappear; you left us." Her mother's gaze was bright with pain and sorrow and fury, glistening like crystal in the candlelight.
Carissa choked back a sob and lifted her chin. "You're right. I know I don't deserve your forgiveness."
"No, you don't. Because when you left for Zonah, you chose to stop loving us. So now I choose to stop loving you."
An incredulous laugh crept up Carissa's throat, but she tamped it down. She'd expected anger of course, but never had her mother been this emotional. Her mother's remarks were so hurtful that Carissa could hardly believe they'd been spoken. It was almost as if her mother had intentionally sharpened each word to wound.
Carissa clasped her hands. "I understand mother. I put you and father through so much for the sake of my freedom, and—"
Her mother barked a laugh. "Freedom? After all we've endured in the past month, you say you had to leave for your freedom. What a comical excuse."
Carissa gripped her hands tighter, felt reassurance in the painful prick of her nails against her skin. "You're right, mother. It is an absolutely comical excuse."
Her mother shook her head. "I wish you had let us believe you were dead, Carissa."
Something tickled her cheek. Carissa brushed it, and her fingers came away wet. A tear.
"Then I could have died—" Her mother's face crumpled for a moment before she drew a sharp breath. "Then I could have died at least thinking my daughter truly loved me, that the girl I took into my family would never abandon me."
Carissa reached out towards her mother, and her mother jerked back. The pain plunged more deeply into her chest, choking the breath from her lungs. Suddenly, her mother's words truly hurt. They didn't seem so unbelievable anymore.
Truth honed her mother's remarks to a fine point, and that was why they hurt: because they were true. All of them. She had no retorts, no excuses, only broken, feeble apologies. "Mother, you're right, and I'm so very, very sorry." You're right. I'm sorry. Please forgive me. What else could she say? What else was there to say?
Her mother's jaw tightened as she took another step back, out of Carissa's reach in more ways than one. "I truly cared for you, Carissa, but you left me and your father. You betrayed us."
No matter what she said, Carissa glimpsed no softening in her mother. She folded her arms tightly over her chest, as if that would staunch the blood flow spilling from her heart. "I know I've been a terrible daughter, and I want to make this as easy on you as possible. What can I do, moth—" She swallowed the word. "What can I do?"
"If you left tomorrow and never turned back, I believe that would be for the best."
This time, Carissa was the one to step back. It seemed every time she tried to say something to make amends, her mother was intent on hurting her for it. She knew she deserved to let her mother's words beat her raw, but the pain was becoming unbearable. It not only ripped her at the seams but tore straight through the weave of the fabric forming her very being.
She turned and strode back to her room, gathering her loose threads. Carissa paused at the door. She'd let the pain unravel her later, but if this were to be her last conversation with her mother, Carissa wanted to walk away without regretting one word, knowing she'd loved her mother and apologized as best she could.
She turned to face her mother. "Should you ever want your daughter back, you only need to ask."
Her mother stood at the other side of the house, hand pressed to the door to her own room. "I have no daughter."
***
Author's Note: As I've grown older, I've realized sometimes you do the right thing to the very best of your abilities, and it turns out worse than you could have possibly ever imagined. Sometimes your very best efforts aren't enough.
But that's okay. I don't make decisions for the sake of a positive outcome but because I want to be the very best person I can be. And that means doing the right thing even when it hurts. Especially when it hurts.
I've written these chapters to remind me of this, because it's a lesson I end up having to keep on learning over and over.