Hearty giggles bubble from her little boy as she twirls him with a playful whooshing sound, and to her, the rhapsody echoing through her home is the most euphoric blessing this blooming April has to offer.
"Oh, Rhean," Neva says, pressing a kiss to her son's forehead as he giggles against her chest. "You're the best baby in the whole wide world."
A click of the camera follows, freezing the moment into a living picture of memory.
She lifts her gaze to meet her husband's, a warm smile curling at his lips as he approaches them.
"I don't like it." She tightens her arms around their baby ever so slightly. "He's growing way too fast."
A laughs escapes him as he cups her cheek and kisses her, before pressing another kiss to Rhean's downy head, crowned with dark, slightly tousled hair.
"Slow down, my boy," Rhett murmurs, booping their son's tiny button nose.
"You don't want to upset Mama, do you?"
Their baby answers him with a cheeky, toothless smile, drawing another chuckle from his father.
"I'm already a bit sad," she says. "His first word was 'Dada,' not 'Mama.' And he's always saying 'Dada.'"
"It's only because 'Dada' is easier to say," he assures, wrapping an arm around her waist and pressing a kiss to her forehead.
"Probably." She picks a strand of her hair from his shirt.
"I've already sent you the list in your phone."
"Alright." He takes Rhean from her, and unable to resist those glittering doe eyes,
she kisses their baby's chubby cheek once more.
"What about me?" her husband complains, a small frown tugging at his brow.
She naturally kisses his cheek when he pulls her close by the waist, kissing her until their son begins to fuss between them.
She smiles as she pulls back. "You should leave now."
"Are you sure you don't want to go?" he asks.
She shakes her head and heads toward the door. "I want to have a little me time before you come back."
He meets her at the door. "I need another kiss."
She laughs and gladly yields to his wish. "Come back soon," she whispers against his lips.
He smiles. "We will."
"Ba-bye, baby," she says, kissing Rhean's cheek again. "I will miss you."
Neva folds her arms over her chest, watching as Rhett secures Rhean into his little car seat.
A habit has formed around their daily strolls or drives through the idyllic valley, and now their son gets terribly fussy if this part of his daily routine is skipped.
She would have been delighted to join them, but today, she longs to have a little part of the afternoon all to herself and to her Father. It is a meditation that mends what has been broken, strengthening her spirit even against the withering season yet to come.
He waves at her, and she mirrors the gesture before he opens the door and slips into the driver's seat.
A breeze brushes her curls, carrying the scent of wildflowers blanketing the valley in a kaleidoscopic utopia. The Volvo pulls away from the driveway and onto the road, before its forest-green
paint almost blends into the surrounding scenery as it grows smaller and smaller in the distance.
As Neva enters the house and closes the door behind her, she wonders if she should paint again in the second diary, now almost filled with the precious moments of her family, the first having long since been filled with photographs and her paintings.
Maybe she should truly try poetry again?
She sits at the kotatsu table in the parlour, twirling a pen between her fingers,
when suddenly a wave of pure bliss washes over her at the realisation of living the answered prayer her beloved Lord has so graciously bestowed upon her.
April in Turbach mirrors the blooming of her own life, and she's profoundly grateful to her Father for the most beautiful blessings He has bestowed upon her: her beloved husband and their precious son.
As she leafs through her diary, relishing the photographs, quotes, Bible verses,
and paintings scattered throughout its pages, she comes upon a coloured drawing accompanied by a 3D rendering of her husband's latest project.
By the grace of her Father,
it has been remarkably successful, and she hopes it will continue to flourish as it moves forward into development at the manufacturing company.
After playing around with their names, just as they had when choosing their son's name so that it might carry a trace of them both, they eventually discovered that the mingling of their names for the sports car had birthed a Latin meaning. Translated into their Lord's earthly language, that meaning became the crowning inspiration for its name: Chila.
He is already working on another project,
and she is helping him polish his design, just as she did with Chila. As much as he loves having her involved in his work, she loves it even more.
So she writes:
A wonder in the wilderness, Father, is Your name;
I breathe, and soothes the flames searing my soul.
Out of the blue, she is taken aback by a buried anxiety clawing its way out of the grave.
She is way too happy, far too happy, and everything around her is so bright, so right.
And somehow, after all the ways the world has treated her, she cannot help but fear that surrendering herself to this overwhelming bliss might only herald misery. Like the lily of the valley,
blooming so beautifully, might conceal beneath its delicate petals a deathly poison of tragedy.
A wavering sigh escapes her as she prays
for the fear to be driven away, and for the safety of her husband and son, who are just down the town for their little outing and grocery shopping.
Now that Rhean has grown enough, they are even considering a trip to Japan this May.
And she finds herself looking forward to it, for she has never been to Asia.
A distant sound of a car approaching their hushed side of the valley, winding through the scattered hamlet, reaches her ears, and she wonders if her husband has returned so soon.
Did he forget something?
She rests the pen on the page before rising as the rumble of the engine draws nearer.
She stands in the doorway, glancing outside for the familiar Volvo, only to find a Range Rover pulling to a stop just beyond their driveway, its night-black paint stark against the lush, vibrant valley.
Has someone lost their way, or are they here on official business?
Just as she debates whether to wait, the door opens, and her heart plummets as Ishmael steps out.
She could never forget those dark eyes watching her... like a wolf stalking its lamb, seared into her memory, not even after more than a year.
Another man steps out from the driver's seat, saying something to him that she cannot make out.
Ishmael moves toward her, his gaze remaining fixed upon her, and all the while, she cannot decide whether this is a nightmare, or whether the world has given her up to hell once again.
A breeze brushes against her cheeks, carrying the same scent of wildflowers that had lingered before her husband—
Rhett...
With a haze clouding her thoughts, she takes a step back as Ishmael starts up the porch stairs.
She turns at once, only for it to hit her, she hasn't locked the door.
But she is already rushing up the stairs, toward the bedroom.
Her phone. She needs her phone.
"Neva!"
The sound echoes through the chalet, almost an animalistic growl that sends a chill down her spine.
Her breath shakes as she shuts the door, scanning the room for something sturdy enough to wedge beneath it,
anything that might buy her a few seconds.
But everything is either too far away or too heavy to move before he reaches her.
The hurried thud of his footsteps draws nearer.
She snatches her phone from the nightstand, as she tries to dial him.
But her hands are trembling so violently that she almost drops the phone.
A gasp escapes her at the thunderous thud reverberating through the chalet,
the floor beneath her feet trembling as the door is battered from the other side.
She slides down against the closet wall, tears slipping down her cheeks as
she prays for him to pick up, each unanswered ring like a plague of locusts eating away at her hope.
She flinches as a violent force slams against the closet door.
"Open the door, Neva!"
Ishmael's voice follows with another violent slam against the door.
This can't be happening to her. This can't be—
"Angel?" Rhett's voice answers.
"He's here—" A sob breaks through her voice,
and before she can say more, the shrill cries of their son echoes from the other side.
"Ish... Ishmael is here," she manages, fear clogging her airways, just as the closet door shatters open.
Her gaze drifts to him as he lunges for her phone, her husband's frantic voice flickering through Rhean's cries before everything falls silent beneath the crushing heel of Ishmael's polished black shoe.
Everything blurs into a haze from then on as his hand wraps around her neck and he slams her against the floor, the impact
sending a violent stab of pain through her skull.
She claws at his hand, the pressure so intense that she feels her neck splitting from her skull. Through the haze,
she knows those eyes, wild and dark, as though blinded by hatred, anger, and some flicker of pain.
What had she ever done to make him hate her so much?
Her lungs burn as her fingers slip against his skin, a sharp click reaching her ears,
followed by the sickening tear of fabric.
An invasive pain coils through her despite the black dots swimming before her eyes, while the image of her husband walking down the porch stairs with their son flares and fizzles behind her lids.
She cannot believe what is being done to her.
The grip around her windpipe loosens as heavy breaths graze her brow,
and darkness closes in around her, the final lines of her poem suddenly flickering through her mind.
Wicked is the world, and I cease... cease with Your... Your...