Page 152 of Halfling
Everything in her hated seeing her mother cry. The little girl she’d been and the woman she’d grown into wanted to say something, anything to make it stop. Aoife reached for her hand and clutched it in her own.
“Sweetheart, I’m so sorry.” Aoife’s tears splashed onto Sorcha’s hand. “If I could bring him back to you, I would. I’d give anything, Sorcha.”
“He made his choice,” she said thickly.
Aoife shook her head. “No. He loves you, Sorcha. It’s so plain to see.”
“Not enough.”
A low, pained moan throbbed in Aoife’s throat. She smoothed back Sorcha’s matted curls to trace patterns across her cheeks, connecting her freckles with imaginary lines. It was something she’d done forever, and so easily Sorcha’s eyes went heavy as the comfort soaked into her, whether she wanted it or not.
“Love isn’t like the storybooks. Life doesn’t end with ‘the end.’ It goes on, and every love story is different. Some are more difficult than others. Your father and I…” Aoife sighed, her expression pensive as she drew a star on Sorcha’s skin. “We’ve always been such independent people with our own dreams and aspirations. In the beginning, it seemed like love was enough to bridge that distance. And sometimes, it was. I’m proud of the life we have here, what we’ve made of it.”
A troubled frown knitted Aoife’s brows. “But those months without you showed me that all of it was possible because I had you. I didn’t…need your father so much because I had my Sorcha.” Her smile was watery and somehow managed to break Sorcha’s heart, which she thought already split in two.
“It was wrong of me,” Aoife said. “Everything you’ve done for this family—my darling, I’m so ashamed. I didn’t see. You were always so strong, so willing, and I…I let you take those burdens. But those were mine to bear, not yours.”
More tears spilled down Aoife’s face, and Sorcha couldn’t help reaching out to wipe them away. But she held her tongue, not letting herself brush away her mother’s words or lessen the truth of them.
“Your siblings all pursue their dreams thanks to you. Your father, too. This family succeeds because you are there to support it. But I didn’t…” Aoife kissed the back of Sorcha’s hand. “I didn’t realize how much that took from you. Not until I saw you with him.”
Sorcha’s lower lip began to tremble, and it was on the tip of her tongue to demand Aoife not speak of him, but her mother shook her head, making her listen.
“I’ve never seen you so happy. Every day, he stood beside you and took your burdens, including all of us. He never complained. Those weren’t his things to bear, either, but he did. For you. And I love him for it.” Sorcha’s tears came faster than Aoife could wipe away. “He loves you, Sorcha. And whatever this is, for whatever reason he’s gone, I’m sure it isn’t for nothing.”
Her chest ached with a fragile hope, evermore painful than the heartbreak. It laid tendrils inside her, grasping at the broken pieces of her heart. Not putting them back together, but holding them steady as she fell into her mother’s arms and wept.
She didn’t know how she had any more tears, but these felt different. A purge. A lancing of a wound. Her lips burned with a salty tang as Aoife held her in her arms and rocked her gently.
She poured out all her rage, her pain, broken words accompanying the tears that rent at her soul.Whyandhow could heandso scaredandwant him.They burned through her like a summer wildfire, scorching, clearing, cleansing. It was more than just the days she’d spent abed in her sorrow; it felt as though months, years spilled out of Sorcha.
“I need him,” she cried into her mother’s neck. “Mama, I miss him so much.”
“Then go get him.” Pulling back, Aoife held Sorcha’s face between her hands. “Men are stupid sometimes, with their need to be heroes, but we love them anyway. My darling, if he’s what you want, then go get him.”
A frustrated, hopeful sound passed her lips.
She didn’t know how far ahead he’d be.
She didn’t know how to find him.
Does that matter?
The single question rang in her ears, and everything else inside her fell silent.
Her tears ceased, and Aoife wiped them away with a kerchief. She quietly sat with Sorcha as she blinked and stuttered and, slowly, began to hope.
But how…?
Leaning forward, Aoife kissed her forehead. “All you have to do is ask.”
Sorcha swallowed on a dry throat, determination hardening in her belly.
“I want Orek back. Safe.”
“Then we’d best tell your father.”
Sorcha didn’t bother with niceties like bathing or changing her clothes—her head swam from the sudden movement and days without food, but her feet knew the way downstairs. Her family jumped in surprise when she came careening into the parlor, everyone talking at once.
