Page 6 of Of Heather and Thistle
Lily nodded, her expression calm and encouraging. “That makes sense. You’ve spent so long trying to distance yourself from your father’s shadow—anything left unfinished between you is bound to feel overwhelming.”
Heather let out a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding. “Yeah,” she admitted. “That’s exactly it. I’m scared of what it might say—what it might mean. I’ve already got his stack of unpaid bills and his disaster of a house. What if this is just one more burden I have to carry?”
Lily tilted her head slightly. “That’s a valid fear. But what do you think is in the envelope? What’s the worst-case scenario your mind keeps circling back to?”
Heather exhaled, leaning back against the chair as she stared at the framed watercolor on the wall—a soft, abstract swirl of greens and blues. She often stared at it when words felt hard to form, as though the image might give her clarity.
“I don’t know,” she admitted, her voice barely above a whisper. “But it feels… final. Like the last thing tying me to him.”
“You’ve been carrying the weight of your father’s anger and grief for so long. Are you afraid it’ll pull you back into the same old pattern—walking on eggshells, trying to keep everyone else from falling apart?”
Heather swallowed, her throat tightening. “Maybe. Probably.” She paused, her voice trembling slightly as she continued. “I spent years taking care of him, you know? Cleaning up his messes, getting him to bed when he drank too much,making sure he ate. And I thought—when I finally moved out—that I’d feel free. But instead, I just feel guilty, even now — like I abandoned him in his addiction.”
Lily leaned forward slightly, her expression warm and understanding. “That guilt has been with you a long time. Would opening that envelope help you let go of some of it?”
She hesitated. “I don’t know.”
Lily gave her a small smile. “Then let’s reframe it. What if this envelope isn’t about him? What if it’s about you?”
Heather frowned slightly, the idea catching her off guard. “I’ve never thought of it like that.”
Lily nodded. “You’ve been trying to move forward, to separate yourself from the pain of your past. Maybe this is one more step toward doing that. And if it feels too big to face alone, you have people who care about you: Ivy and me. You’re not in this alone.”
Heather nodded slowly, the weight of the envelope in her mind beginning to shift. She wasn’t ready to open it yet, but Lily’s words planted a seed of hope for healing that she hadn’t felt before.
* * *
By the time she left the office, the cold air outside felt bracing rather than oppressive, but the snow had turned to icy slush that seeped through her boots. She climbed the stairs, a deep weariness still clinging to her limbs, but lighter somehow—like she was no longer carrying quite as much on her shoulders.
She unlocked the door as Byrdie greeted her on the welcome mat with an impatient meow, winding around herlegs in protest, as if scolding her for being gone so long. Heather sighed, bending down to scratch behind her ears. “I know, I know—I took too long,” she murmured. “You act like I abandoned you for weeks.”
Byrdie flicked her tail dramatically, lifting her chin with an air of feline indignation. But the act didn’t last long. As soon as Heather ran her fingers down her spine, Byrdie let out a throaty purr, her body arching into the touch. She gave Heather’s ankle one last headbutt before trotting ahead, her fluffy tail swaying like a victory banner as she led the way inside.
Heather stepped through the doorway. The warmth of their comfortable apartment enveloped her as she slipped off her wet coat and hung it on the hook by the door. Her boots left tiny puddles of melted snowflakes on the worn, oak floor as she trudged toward her bedroom. She peeled off her soaked black dress in the quiet of her room, tossing it over the back of a chair. The thick, woolen tights clung to her damp legs as she peeled them off, revealing faint red ridges where the knit pattern had pressed into her skin.
Standing in her underwear, she turned toward the mirror on her closet door. She rarely looked at herself for too long—it always felt like more of a chore than a self-appreciation exercise—but today, the reflection seemed unavoidable. Her fiery curls were a tangled mess from the snow, the deep auburn strands damp and clinging to her face. She reached up, running her fingers through the knots, wincing as she hit a particularly stubborn tangle. Her hair was one of the things she’d always disliked about herself, though it had been one of her mother’s most striking features.
Heather’s mother, Eilidh Campbell, had a beauty that wentfar beyond her appearance. Her wild, strawberry-blonde curls framed a round, freckled face, and her deep green eyes sparkled with mischief. Her smile could brighten the gloomiest day—and when she laughed, it wasn’t just sound; it was music.
She looked delicate, but her embrace had a quiet strength that made you feel invincible. Her joy was contagious, her presence radiant. Even now, Heather could close her eyes and see her—barefoot in the garden, humming a Celtic tune, her curls bouncing with every step like she was made of sunlight and song.
Her mother was a force of nature, a wildflower blooming where others couldn’t. She was born under the open Scottish skies and carried the enchantment of the Highlands within her. She named her daughter Heather—to pass on the luck and beauty of the heather-covered hills of Inverness-shire that she’d grown up loving. Her lilting Scottish accent had been a song for Heather as a child—soothing and full of warmth. Their time together was far too short; every moment with her was infused with joy, wonder, and love. She saw beauty in everything—the sunlight filtering through trees, the tiniest insects, and the rain that most people tried to avoid.
Their little home was in the heart of Chicago, a far cry from the misty hills and rolling peaks her mother had once roamed. Though she loved the wild beauty of the mountains, life had led her here instead—to a city of towering skylines and bustling streets, where she built a different kind of home—one where she found new ways to stay connected to nature.
She filled their apartment with potted ferns and trailing ivy, tended a small herb garden on the windowsill, and never let aday go by without stepping outside to feel the sun on her skin. But it was never quite enough. So she and Heather’s father took every opportunity to escape the concrete and glass, driving out to the woods whenever they could— camping in the cool, pine-scented air of the Wisconsin Northwoods or hiking through rugged trails in the Appalachians on longer trips. Those weekends away felt like stolen pockets of magic, where the hum of the city faded into rustling leaves and birdsong, and her mother could breathe deeply with her bare feet sinking into the earth like she belonged to it.
Heather spent her early summers running wild through the trees, pretending she was the queen of the fae or some fearless woodland adventurer. One of her most vivid memories of her mother was when Heather was seven years old. A warm spring day had suddenly turned into a sunshower, and Heather found her dancing in the front yard, twirling in her favorite green sundress and laughing with her father as if they were teenagers again. Heather had always called that green dress her mom’s “fairy dress” because it was so light and airy. Made of soft chiffon, it skimmed her frame and billowed with every step, the fabric whispering against her skin. When Heather was little, she’d run her fingers over it, the cool, delicate material slipping between her hands.
She remembered another afternoon in the backyard, golden light filtering through the trees as her mother twirled barefoot in the grass, the dress fanning out around her like delicate, glowing gossamer wings. Heather had been six, convinced that if she looked closely enough, she’d see real fairy dust trailing in her wake. Her mother’s laughter had been warm and lilting, her emerald eyes crinkling at the edges as she reached for Heather’s hands, pulling her intothe dance.
Heather had giggled, stumbling over her tiny feet, but her mother only held her tighter, guiding her into a world where the ground barely mattered. Where the sky stretched wide, and anything felt possible.
Her skin was soft as wildflower petals, her rose-gold curls sun-kissed and free. She smelled of lavender and earth—real and rooted, yet impossibly light. In those moments, she was more than just Heather’s mother.
She wasmagic.
Her dress spun with her, scattering drops of water like loose diamonds, her hair clinging to her face as she laughed. Heather’s dad had stood there beside his wife, his eyes full of love, catching her hand as she twirled. When she finally stopped, breathless and glowing, he pulled her into a deep dip, kissing her as if no one else existed. Heather had run to them and her dad had scooped her up, wrapping them all in one big, wet hug. The smell of rain, grass, and earth had surrounded them, and for a moment, the world had felt perfect—wrapped in the love only they could create.
