Page 8 of Of Heather and Thistle
You looked so much like her. That wasn’t your fault, but it tore me apart every time I saw you because it felt like the universe was mocking me. She was gone, and you were still here, with her hair and her eyes and her laugh. I couldn’t handle it. And instead of dealing with my grief like a man should, I took it out on you. I wish I could take that back, but I can’t.
You’re stronger than me, you know. You always were. You put up with me when I didn’t deserve it. You stayed when you could’ve walked away, and when you finally left, I hated you for it—not because you were wrong to go, but because I knew I deserved it.I was angry and sad and scared of being alone, but none of that was your fault. I didn’t know how to say it.
There’s something I should’ve told you a long time ago, but I didn’t have the guts to contact you after you left. Your mother wanted you to have this. I couldn’t bring myself to give it to you before you left, but it’s yours now. It’s what she wanted for you, and I hope it brings you the peace I never could.
I don’t expect you to forgive me, Heather. I wouldn’t blame you if you didn’t. But for whatever it’s worth, I loved you. I still do, even if I had a lousy way of showing it. I hope this makes up for a little of the damage I did.
Take care of yourself.
Dad
Her mother left something for her? Heather’s pulse kicked up. Was it supposed to be included with the letter? Had something been lost? She reread the words, her grip tightening on the page. Heather’s hands trembled as she set the letter on the coffee table, her father’s rough scrawl blurring in her vision as tears welled up. She blinked them away angrily, frustrated with herself for crying over words she hadn’t even been sure he was capable of writing. She pressed her hands to her face, breathing deep, trying to steady herself. But the words kept echoing in her mind:
You didn’t deserve any of it.
You’re stronger than me.
I’m sorry.
It felt surreal. Her father had spent her entire life lockedin anger, grief, and bitterness—a man who had rarely, if ever, taken responsibility for his actions. He’d yelled at her for leaving, lashed out when she failed to meet his impossible standards, and punished her for looking like the woman he had loved and lost. The idea of him sitting down to write something so raw and vulnerable was incomprehensible. It didn’t fit the man she had known. She didn’t know what to feel: Anger? Sadness? Relief? All three twisted inside her like a storm.
She was angry that he’d only said these things now—when he was gone, when it was too late to matter. She thought of all the nights she cried alone as a child, begging silently for him to see her, not just the ghost of her mother.
And now, here it was: a too-late apology written on crumpled paper. He couldn’t say it to her face. He couldn’t apologize when it might have mattered; when it might have meant something. And yet… he had said it.
The sadness seeped in slowly, catching her off guard. For all his faults—and there were so many—he had been human. Broken. He had loved her mother so fiercely that her death had shattered him in ways he didn’t know how to handle. That wasn’t an excuse, and it didn’t erase what he had done, but it made her wonder, what had it been like for him?
She had spent so much of her life hating him, but now she realized that perhaps he had hated himself even more. And then there was the tiniest thread of something else, something that scared her because it felt like love. His words, as jagged and imperfect as they were, felt… genuine. She could almost hear his voice in them—gruff, uneven, apologetic, but still stubborn in its own way. He hadn’t written this to manipulate or redeem himself in her eyes. He had written it because, for once, he wanted her to know the truth. He was admitting his failure. And he was letting her go.
She reached for Byrdie, stroking her soft fur as her mind raced. Could she forgive him? Could she ever let go of the resentment and anger she had carried for so long? She didn’t know.
Her eyes fell on a second envelope tucked inside the first. Carefully, reverently, she set her father’s letter aside and pulled out the smaller envelope. It had something impeccably penned on the front:The Estate of Eilidh Mackenzie Campbell.Her heart lurched—her mother’s name.
Her thumb traced the edge as she stared, her stomach twisting with equal parts anticipation and dread. Whatever was inside had been waiting for her for years—an entire lifetime, it seemed. She opened it slowly, her breath catching as she unfolded the contents and a key fell into her lap. Confused, she scanned the pages, her eyes snagging on specific phrases:
“Eilidh Mackenzie Campbell Trust…”
“Estate located in Inverness-shire, Scotland…”
“Sole heir…”
Her fingers trembled as she pulled out the photograph tucked between the pages—a grand stone house draped in ivy, perched on a rugged Highland hillside, and weathered stone walls softened by the rolling mist. Her mother stood beaming in front of the grand wooden door, no older than thirteen, a squirming puppy in her arms. Heather jolted. The wild curls. The freckled cheeks. Her mother looked likeher.
On the back, written in her mother’s elegant handwriting, were the words:Glenoran House, 1986.Heather’s breathcaught in her throat. Her mother had lived there, walked those halls, looked out over those hills. And now, somehow, it belonged to Heather, and it looked like something out of a dream—or a storybook— with its ivy-covered stone walls and misty Highland backdrop. It didn’t feel real. It couldn’t be real.
But her mother’s familiar, looping handwriting on the back of the photograph was undeniable. Heather ran her fingers over the photo’s edges as if touching it would somehow reconnect her with her mother—young and full of life before tragedy had taken her away. She took a deep breath and returned to the documents in her lap.
The papers blurred together—property descriptions, estate valuations, lists of holdings from the furniture to the art. Then came the trust: a bank account in her mother’s name, untouched for over a decade. And it held more money than Heather could comprehend.
It was too much. Too much to process, too much to take in. She set the papers down, leaned back against the couch, and closed her eyes as she tried to steady her thoughts.
Her mother had never mentioned Glenoran House. She’d spoken of Scotland in passing—of glens, lochs, and morning mist that made everything feel enchanted—but never of a grand estate or family legacy.
It had been a mystery, locked away in her mother’s past, hidden even after her death. And now, suddenly, it was Heather’s.
What was she supposed to do with all of this? She couldn’t just pack up her life and move to Scotland. But her eyes drifted back to the photograph. Glenoran House wasn’t just a property or a trust fund. It was her mother’s legacy—apiece of her life that she had left behind for Heather, hidden away until now. Heather thought of her father’s letter, his apology, and the guilt he had carried to his grave.
She stood abruptly, the photograph still clutched in her hand. Byrdie let out a startled meow from the couch, her tail flicking as she watched Heather pace.
