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Rated: E · Short Story · Emotional · #1663318
The source of the true pain of a young girl over the loss of her mother.
As I stared out the window, I began to ponder how much my life had changed in the last few months. Mother was gone, I was to attend some stuffy boarding school in God-only-knows-where. It finally hit me how much I had been taking for granted.

My eyes began to glaze over with the first twinkle of my suppressed tears as I observed our beautiful garden – the garden my mother had turned from a dream to a reality – for one last time.

I believe it never really occurred to me before that I wouldn’t always live here. I wouldn’t always have Cook to make my favourite foods for Papa and I. I wouldn’t always have my own reading corner in the spacious attic; my land of adventure. I wouldn’t always be able to daydream for hours on end, I wouldn’t always have the lush greens of our estate to claim as my own.

Since Mother’s disappearance, Papa is a changed man. Grandmamma does not believe me. He has not started to drink more than his share, he has not taken up any of those filthy habits like gambling, and thus, by her account, Father is fine. She does not see the devastation in his eyes. She does not see his desperate hope at each knock on the door. He waits for Mother, clinging at the thought of her return. His every action is in some way a form of homage. We only eat her favourite foods. I may only wear gowns of a style which she would have liked, and I, for my part, do what I can to keep him happy.

I must confess, I do think him naive. Mother has been gone for almost a year. However, it is not for a lady to press her opinion, and so, I am resigned by my gender to keep my thoughts to myself. I allow him his rituals, and yet, I do wish he could learn a life without Mother.

However, facing facts becomes increasingly difficult when people’s wish for formality overbears the necessity for the truth. Every social caller seems to open a conversation with a “How do you do? So sorry to hear your wife is still indisposed in Rome, do wish her good health from us.” It is with that that Papa’s improvements wash down the gutter.

Reality is but a feeble, flimsy thing. It’s quite intriguing how often we place more priority in what we hope and dream than in the truth which we choose to ignore.

It is not the fact the Mother has left us for a man which hurts, it is but the necessity to acknowledge this face which cuts us to the core.

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