Page 3 of Of Heather and Thistle
She almost laughed.
“You weren’t much of that, were you?” she whispered.
The wind whipped through the cemetery, pulling at her curls. Her fingers traced the rough letters of his name, grounding her.
She didn’t know why she stayed. Maybe out of duty. Maybe out of habit.
Or maybe because this was the only goodbye she had to give.
“You made things so hard,” she said softly, her voice trembling under the weight of years she had kept bottled up. “You could’ve… You could’ve tried, Dad. For me. For Mom. But you didn’t.”
Her voice broke.
She pressed her hand to her mouth, willing herself to stay composed. If she let go now, she wasn’t sure she’d be able to pull herself back together. For years, no matter how far she ran, a part of her had still been tied to him.
But now?
That thread had finally snapped.
And she wasn’t sure if she felt free or just lost.
She stood, brushing the dirt from her knees. The sky was gray, the clouds heavy with snow—a perfect match for the heaviness in her chest.
As she turned to leave, she hesitated, glancing back one last time. She wasn’t sure if she was mourning her father, or the wounds he left behind.
Maybe both.
Maybe that was the cruelest thing—grief and anger living side by side, neither willing to let her go.
“Goodbye, Dad,” she murmured. “I hope you find whatever peace you couldn’t here.”
A strange mixture of relief and guilt settled over her as she walked away.
She wasn’t sure what came next.
But for the first time in her life, it was hers to decide.
Chapter 2
Heather unlocked the door to her apartment and stepped inside, the scent of fresh coffee and laundry detergent wrapping around her like a familiar embrace. It was a stark contrast to the drafty, stale house she’d grown up in—a house that had never really felt like home.
Her apartment wasn’t much—a small one-bedroom tucked into the second floor of an older building—but it was hers. She had picked every piece of furniture and every mug in the cupboard, carving out a safe space for herself, for the first time in her life.
Byrdie was waiting for her, perched on the back of the sofa like a tiny sentinel. The tortoiseshell cat blinked at her with wide, curious eyes before hopping down with a chirp, weaving through Heather’s legs.
“Hey, Byrdie,” she murmured, crouching to scratch behind the cat’s ears. Byrdie purred, pressing into her touch, her warmth a welcome comfort against the lingering chillHeather still felt from standing at the gravesite.
Heather shrugged off her coat, draping it over the arm of the couch, and moved into the kitchen. The heels of her boots clicked softly against the hardwood as she filled Byrdie’s bowl. The kitchen was quiet except for the faint hum of the refrigerator and the soft crunch of kibble.
She sank onto the couch, exhaustion settling into her bones. For a moment, she simply sat there, letting the silence stretch. Then, with slow, deliberate movements, she pulled the envelope from her bag and set it on the table. She ran her fingers over the heavy paper, tracing the uneven slant of her father’s handwriting.
She could open it. Read whatever parting words he had left for her. But if she did, it would become real.
Heather inhaled sharply, then let out a slow, measured breath.
“Not tonight,” she whispered, setting the envelope aside.
Instead, she grabbed the fleece blanket draped over the back of the couch and curled into it. A moment later, Byrdie hopped up beside her, pressing into her side with a contented sigh. Heather closed her eyes and let herself breathe, let herself feel the quiet comfort of her cat’s warmth, let herself be still.
