Ashes that never burnt
I turned and saw Father step inside—fury painted across his face.
But the moment his eyes landed on me, something shifted. The rage that had twisted his features softened, dimmed by a flicker of recognition or something deeper.
It was brief, like a whisper of wind in a storm. The softness vanished, replaced once again by the stoic ,emotionless man I was used to seeing. He came towards me, took the dress i had hugged from my hands, and placed it back inside the cupboard with almost too much care for a man so hellbent on not showing emotions.
"You. Leave this room," he said to Sasha.
Without hesitation, she nodded and quickly exited, the door clicking shut behind her. And then we were alone.
I kept my eyes on the floor, unsure of what to say—unsure if I was even allowed to speak. What was I supposed to say? That I missed my mother, after all these years?
Isla never tried to learn about her mother. She spent her life trying to disappear, shrinking herself so no one would notice her—because attention meant torment. She never cared to know who her mother was, never attempted to get close to her father. She just wanted to survive.
But now, me—someone who isn't truly Isla—wants to know. It makes sense to me, because the ache in my chest feels too real to ignore. A need, deep and consuming.
But for Father, it must not make sense. He knows his daughter as someone who never sought his affection, never asked questions. Now, suddenly, I've barged into a sacred room, demanding answers.
My thoughts were spiraling when his voice broke through the silence that had grown unbearably thick between us.
"What are you doing here, Isla?" he asked. A simple question—ordinary even—but it felt anything but ordinary to me maybe for him also. It felt like the beginning of something we'd both spent too long avoiding.
"I... I wanted to find something about my mother," I whispered, finally lifting my gaze to meet his. My eyes were likely red and swollen by now, still wet from tears I hadn't realized were falling again.
He didn't speak immediately. Instead, he let out a long, weary sigh and pulled a chair forward, dragging it to sit directly in front of me. He sat down, looked me straight in the eyes, and said something I never imagined I'd hear.
"You are my daughter, Isla."
The words hit me like sunlight after a long winter. I didn't know I needed to hear them until I did. It was as if something inside me cracked open, and light poured in.
"And knowing about your mother is your right. Ask me anything, and I'll tell you," he added, his voice gentler than I'd ever heard it before. That warmth—so foreign, so desperately needed—wrapped around my fragile heart.
"Everyone keeps telling me that she left me—that the moment I was born, she abandoned me for ambition. But I don't believe that!" I said, the words rushing out in a torrent. "After everything Sasha told me—about her grace, her compassion—I can't believe she just left us."
"Why did you believe Amelia's words, Father? Did you trust her more than you trusted Mother? What if she lied? What if Mother was in danger and you gave up on her?"
My voice was climbing, frantic, tangled with emotion, until he reached forward and gently took my hands in his.
"Calm down, Isla. Take a deep breath and listen to me," he said softly. His touch sent another unfamiliar warmth through me, grounding me just enough to breathe.
"Your mother... she was my life, Isla. When she disappeared, it felt like she took my soul with her. I was nothing without her. A walking corpse."
"You think I didn't search for her? I spent days—weeks—without sleep, without food, clinging to hope. I kept thinking... what if she came back while I was asleep? Would she think I didn't care?"
"I searched for her until there was nothing left to search. It was as if she had vanished from existence. And when Amelia told me the truth, I brought all of your mother's things here. I was ready to burn them—or better yet, burn myself along with them," he said bitterly.
In horror, I pressed my hand over his mouth. "Don't say that, Father! What would I have done without you?"
I didn't say it to act like Isla. I said it because I meant it.
He let out a low, tear-choked chuckle. "Even now, you stop me from saying such terrible things. Just like you did back then."
I stared at him, confused.
"That day, I was going to go through with it. But then you—you fell seriously ill. The physicians couldn't explain it. You were unconscious for hours. I couldn't leave you like that. I had no choice but to stay."
My heart tightened at the thought. The real Isla had unknowingly saved her father from despair.
"When you finally slept that evening, I returned to this room. But something had changed. You became my reason to live."
He smiled faintly, eyes distant yet full. "I kept pretending you weren't important to me—kept my distance, acted cold all these years . But after you fell from that balcony... seeing you unconscious on that bed, so still—it shattered something in me. That's when I decided I'd try, even if I didn't know how."
"I know I've failed more than I've succeeded, but I'm trying. And now I definitely know that I'm grateful to Isabelle... for leaving you behind. You're what kept me alive."
His voice trembled with each word, and the weight of his grief pressed into me, mingling with my own. But it also did something else—it lifted the invisible burden I'd carried for so long. The burden of being unloved. Unwanted.
"So instead of burning her things, I arranged them. Just like she would've. She always said we should do our own organizing—not leave it to the maids."
There was a soft smile on his lips again, the kind that made me see the man who once loved with everything he had and once again the reason was my mother, his love.
"Father..." I said hesitantly, "What truth did Amelia tell you?"
The smile slipped from his face like the last leaf falling from a tree before winter.