Page 81 of Of Heather and Thistle
She’d wanted to say,I’m scared.To ask,Why does everything feel wrong?But the words never came. They caught in her throat like splinters.
Instead, she just shook her head. “Never mind.”
He never looked back.
She had spent so much of her life swallowing words, silencing herself before anyone else could. She’d learned early that quiet was safer than risk being dismissed.
With Flynn, she didn’t hesitate. Didn’t second-guess. She spoke before she thought—pushed without fear of being pushed away. And that scared her more than she wanted to admit. Heather spent hours in the storage unit, the dust and silence of the place wrapping around her like a blanket. She worked methodically, sorting through the piles of boxes, some packed to the brim and others barely taped shut. Each item felt like a thread from her mother’s past—and with each passing hour, the weight of it pulled heavier.
She started with the old photographs—images of her mother as a young girl in Scotland, smiling with friends at what looked like a birthday party from the ‘70s. There were pictures of her at the beach, the hills, and family gatherings. The vibrant, sunlit photos starkly contrasted Heather’s foggy memories of her mother, so distant in some ways but present in others. It was strange to see her mother as a child, as a person who had a life before she ever became Heather’s mom.
She found a stack of old birthday cards tucked inside one of the boxes, the handwriting instantly recognizable—curvy, neat, undeniably her mother’s. There were sweet, often funny notes written to family members and friends. She flipped through them slowly, pausing to read a few, her heart-tugging as she imagined her mother writing them in a time and place that seemed so foreign now. There were also trinkets from her mother’s teenage years—small gifts, a handkerchief embroidered with delicate stitching, and a few items foreign to Heather—things from a life she’d never truly understood. Her mother had left Scotland for the United States to attend university, where she met Heather’s father. All Heather had ever known was the version of her mother, who was already firmly planted in American life, married and raising her. It was hard to imagine her mother ever being this young woman with a life in another world—a life that Heather had never been a part of.
As she sifted through more boxes, Heather came across a few more personal items—books, letters, even some old records her mother had kept, with handwritten labels on the sleeves. They all felt like pieces of a puzzle Heather couldn’t fully see. The more she uncovered, the more it felt like peeking into a life she’d never been invited to—a version of her mother she could never truly meet.
A few of the items seemed unnecessary, relics from a past that was long gone, but the deeper she went, the more attached she became to the memories embedded in each item. She couldn’t throw everything away. But she also knew that not everything should be kept either. Hours passed, the task feeling endless, but with each item, Heather began to understand her mother in new ways. It was a strangeand bittersweet experience, seeing her mother not just as the woman who had raised her but as the woman who had lived her own entire, vibrant life before—the life Heather had never really understood—until now.
Heather carefully opened a wooden box tucked at the bottom of the trunk. The box was worn with age, its edges rough and chipped, but it had been carefully preserved. As she lifted the lid, she was met with a faint, musty smell—a mix of old wood and forgotten time.
Inside, she found a folded bundle of fabric. Her hands trembled slightly as she unwrapped it, revealing an ancient Scottish flag. The material was faded, its once vibrant colors now muted by age. Frayed at the edges, but unmistakable—the white saltire stretched across faded blue. Time had worn it down, but the history still clung to it. She couldn’t help but be struck by how… important it felt.
Next to the flag was a piece of parchment, yellowed and brittle, almost disintegrating as she unfolded it carefully. The writing was hard to read, the ink faded with age. But when Heather’s fingers brushed over the parchment, one date stood out.
April 16th.
The date tugged at her memory; important, familiar—but just out of reach. She stared at it momentarily, the numbers lingering in her mind, but no particular memory or explanation came to her. The pieces of the past she was uncovering felt like they were about to fall into place, yet the weight of this particular date left her with an unsettling feeling of mystery.
Then, beneath the parchment, she found something else: a tattered piece of Mackenzie tartan. The fabric was frayedand torn, but Heather could still make out the green, blue, and black pattern. Her heart raced as she realized what this was. Her mother’s family had roots in the Highland clans, but the tartan… wasn’t just a family connection. It was a piece of history, a reminder of the past her mother had left behind. Heather swallowed hard, holding the items carefully in her hands. A part of her felt like she had uncovered something monumental.
Flynn had been standing nearby, watching her sort through the boxes, and stepped closer when he noticed the items in her hands.“What have ye got there?” he asked, his voice low with curiosity. Heather held the flag up, gently unfolding the fabric further. “I… I’m unsure, but I think this is an old Scottish flag. And this parchment— And this”—she gestured to the piece of tartan—“this looks like Mackenzie tartan. It has to be…” Heather’s fingers brushed over the parchment, and her breath hitched.
The ink was faint, the numbers ghostlike—but something about it slid cold down her spine. It felt… important. Familiar, almost. Like a word on the tip of her tongue that she couldn’t quite say. She glanced at Flynn. “Does this date mean anything to you?” Flynn’s brow furrowed as he leaned in. “April 16… that’s the day of the Battle of Culloden.” Heather’s pulse quickened. She knew little about Scottish history, but she knew that name. Culloden. The battle that had crushed the Jacobite uprising.
And now, somehow, it was tied to her family.
Flynn’s eyes widened as he examined the items in her hands. He reached out to touch the fabric of the flag with reverence. “This is something special, Campbell. The date, the tartan… this could be from the time of the Jacobite uprising in 1745. These flags were battle standards. Ye don’t just find them lying about.”
She whispered, “But why was it in the house? Shouldn’t this be in a museum or something?”
“I’m not sure,” Flynn said thoughtfully, rubbing his chin. “But I’d guess it’s tied to yer family history. The Mackenzies were deeply involved in the Jacobite cause. This flag might have belonged to someone who fought in that rebellion or supported it.” Her mind raced as she absorbed Flynn’s words. It felt almost surreal to think that this small piece of fabric, this relic from the past, was somehow connected to her bloodline. Her mother had never mentioned anything about this part of their heritage. The only knowledge Heather had of Scottish history came from her high school World History class, and it barely scratched the surface. The weight of the discovery felt both exhilarating and overwhelming. How had she never known?
Flynn noticed her pensive expression and smiled gently. “If ye want to know more, I’d suggest talking to Dr. Morrow in town. He’s a historian who specializes in the Jacobite period. He could tell ye more about the flag and its significance.” Heather nodded, still holding the items with a newfound reverence. She had no idea what she’d just uncovered, but it was clear that her connection to the past ran deeper than she had realized.
As she carefully placed everything back in the box, her thoughts shifted, momentarily pulled back to the present. The ping of her phone startled her out of her reverie. She pulled it out and saw a message from the realtor:
Your father’s house outside Millhaven has sold. Congratulations. The new owners are excited to move in.
The words didn’t register at first. Just a blur of black text against a glowing screen. Your father’s house outside Millhaven has sold. Heather blinked. Read it again.
Then—impact. A gut punch. Sharp. Breath-stealing. It was the last piece of her mom she still had. The house had held her voice. The scent of her baking still clung to the old curtains, the bookshelves still carried the dust of her hands. And now? It belonged to strangers. People who would repaint the walls, change the floors, erase every piece of her mom until there was nothing left. Her mother had filled that house with warmth and care. But after Eilidh died, it was like someone had flipped a switch. The light went out. The warmth evaporated, replaced by the coldness of her father’s bitterness. The man who had once been a loving husband had turned into someone unrecognizable—angry, volatile, consumed by alcohol. And Heather, still a child, had borne the brunt of it.
There had been nights when she had hidden in her room, afraid to come out. Her father’s yelling would echo down the halls, and she would shrink into herself, wishing to disappear. He would take his anger out on everything around him, sometimes on her. She remembered the sting of the words he’d hurled at her, the silence that followed the chaos, and the hollow feeling that lingered long after. And yet, somewhere in that house, there were memories of love—small, quiet moments when her mother would sit beside her, brush her hair, and tell stories of faraway places. When the world outside felt like it was falling apart, her mother had been the one constant, the one person who made Heather feel like she was enough. Those memories had been her lifeline through the years of her father’s abuse. They were the goodparts of the house, which Heather tried to hold on to even after her mom was gone. But now, those memories felt like they belonged to someone else.
The words hit her harder than she expected. The house had sold. The house where she had lived through so many difficult years, the place she had spent so much of her childhood and young adulthood, was no longer hers. It felt like an ending, a door closing on something she hadn’t fully processed. There was a finality to it, an unspoken acknowledgment that the weight of that house, of everything it symbolized, was no longer her burden to carry. But there was also relief, a sense of release. The house had been under constant stress and uncertainty for a long time. Now, it was gone—no more worrying about repairs, no more wondering whether she should keep or sell it, no more reminders of the man her father had become. It wasn’t a simple relief, though. It was bittersweet, tinged with grief for the mother she had lost, for the little girl she used to be in that house, and for all the parts of her past she wasn’t sure she could ever truly let go of. She looked up, lost in thought when Flynn’s voice gently broke through her trance. “You okay?” His gaze was soft, his concern evident as he noticed the shift in her expression.
Heather swallowed hard, feeling a lump in her throat. She nodded slowly. “Yeah, just… a lot going on. My father’s house sold. It’s done. It feels… final.” Flynn’s gaze softened, and Heather could feel the weight of his understanding pressing down on her. She appreciated his concern, but something about his kindness and closeness made her chest tighten. She didn’t want to be vulnerable, not with him now. She couldn’t afford to be. With a quick, forced smile, Heather stepped back, clutching the old box tighter in her hands. Shecould feel herself retreating into the familiar walls she’d built around her heart. “I should get going; it’s getting late,” she said, her voice a little too sharp. “I’ll pay Dr. Morrow a visit later.” Flynn’s jaw tensed briefly—so quickly that Heather almost missed it. Almost. But she did see it. The flicker of something in his eyes. Not just confusion. Not just frustration. Something closer to… disappointment.
It was subtle. A tightening of his shoulders, a beat too long before he nodded. But it was there. Like he already knew she was slipping away. The flicker of something behind his eyes, something close to frustration, but not quite. He wanted to say something—but she’d already shut the door. Then, just as quickly, it was gone. He nodded, stepping back. “Alright,” he said lightly. “I’ll check in later.”
