The fortieth week, Christabel's mother died.
Not with a fight.
With a whisper.
And Christabel had to decide who she wanted to be in the aftermath.
---
The call came at dawn.
Christabel was in the nursery. Lena was sleeping. The sun was rising over the city.
Her phone buzzed.
The hospital.
"Mrs. Moreau?"
"Yes."
"Your mother passed away an hour ago. She went peacefully. In her sleep."
Christabel was silent.
"Mrs. Moreau? Are you there?"
"I'm here."
"I'm so sorry for your loss."
"Thank you."
She hung up.
---
She stood over Lena's crib.
Her daughter was sleeping. Her tiny chest rose and fell. Her fingers were curled around the edge of her blanket.
"My mother is dead," Christabel whispered.
Lena didn't stir.
"She died alone. In a hospital bed. With no one beside her."
She touched Lena's cheek.
"I wasn't there."
---
Damien found her in the nursery.
Sitting on the floor.
Her back against the crib.
Her face in her hands.
"Christabel."
"She's gone."
"I know. The hospital called me too."
"You knew?"
"I wanted to tell you in person."
She looked up at him.
Her eyes were red.
Her face was wet.
"Why didn't I go back?"
"Because you weren't ready."
"I'll never be ready now."
---
He sat beside her.
Pulled her into his arms.
"Talk to me."
"I don't know what to say."
"Then just cry."
She cried.
Not the silent tears he was used to.
The kind that came from somewhere deep.
Somewhere that had been hurting for years.
---
"When I was a little girl," she said, "she used to hold me. Like I hold Lena. She used to sing to me. Read to me. Tell me stories."
"I remember."
"You weren't there."
"I remember you telling me."
"She was so beautiful. So warm. So full of love."
"What happened?"
Christabel was quiet for a moment.
"Life happened. Anger happened. Betrayal happened."
"She changed."
"We both did."
---
Damien held her tighter.
"You were just a child."
"I was old enough to know better."
"You were a child."
"I chose my father over her."
"You chose the parent who stayed."
"She never forgave me."
"I know."
"I never forgave myself."
---
Lena woke.
Crying.
Christabel stood.
Lifted her daughter from the crib.
Held her against her chest.
"Hi, baby," she said.
Lena cried.
"I know," Christabel said. "You're hungry. You're wet. You're cold. I'm sorry. Mommy's sad."
Lena stopped crying.
Looked up at her mother.
"My mother died today. Your grandmother. The woman who gave me life."
Lena cooed.
"I wasn't there. I didn't say goodbye. I didn't tell her I loved her."
Lena grabbed her finger.
Held on tight.
"I don't know if I did love her. But I'm sad anyway."
---
Damien walked to her.
Took Lena from her arms.
Laid her in the crib.
Then he took Christabel's hand.
"Come with me."
"Where?"
"The living room."
---
They sat on the couch.
The city was bright.
The room was quiet.
"I keep thinking about the last time I saw her," Christabel said.
"The cemetery?"
"Yes."
"She asked you to forgive her."
"I couldn't."
"She asked you to love her."
"I wouldn't."
"And now?"
"Now it's too late."
---
Damien took her face in his hands.
"It's never too late to forgive."
"She's dead."
"Forgiveness isn't for her. It's for you."
"I don't know how."
"Then let me help you."
---
He pulled her close.
She cried against his chest.
The tears came faster now.
Harder.
"I remember her reading to me," Christabel said. "The same stories I read to Lena. The same voice. The same smile."
"What stories?"
"Ones about princesses. About dragons. About brave girls who saved the world."
"She wanted you to be brave."
"She wanted me to be her."
"No." He kissed her forehead. "She wanted you to be happy."
---
The memories came flooding back.
Christabel was five years old. Her mother was tucking her into bed. Singing a lullaby. Stroking her hair.
"Sleep, my darling. Sleep, my love. The stars are watching from above."
Christabel was ten years old. Her mother was teaching her to cook. Flour on both their faces. Laughter filling the kitchen.
Christabel was fifteen years old. Her mother was yelling. About her father. About the company. About choices Christabel didn't understand.
Christabel was eighteen years old. Her mother was gone.
A funeral. A casket. A grave.
But no body.
Because her mother wasn't dead.
She had just left.
---
"I hated her," Christabel said. "For so long. I hated her for leaving. I hated her for lying. I hated her for making me feel like I wasn't enough."
"And now?"
"Now I don't know what I feel."
"That's okay."
"It doesn't feel okay."
"It doesn't have to feel okay. It just has to be."
---
Lena cried again.
Christabel went to her.
Lifted her from the crib.
Held her against her chest.
"I'm sorry," Christabel whispered. "I'm sorry I'm not stronger. I'm sorry I'm not better. I'm sorry I'm not the mother you deserve."
Lena grabbed her finger.
Held on tight.
"You deserve someone who isn't broken."
Lena smiled.
Christabel cried.
---
Damien appeared in the doorway.
"She's awake," he said.
"She's hungry."
"I'll make a bottle."
"She wants to nurse."
He walked to her.
Sat on the floor beside the rocking chair.
"You're not broken."
"I feel broken."
"You're healing. There's a difference."
"I don't feel like I'm healing."
"You don't have to feel it. You just have to keep going."
---
Lena finished nursing.
Fell asleep against Christabel's chest.
"She's out," Christabel said.
"She's perfect."
"She's ours."
Damien stood.
Took Lena from her arms.
Laid her in the crib.
Then he walked back to Christabel.
Took her hand.
"Come with me."
"Where?"
"The garden."
---
They sat on the bench beneath the tree.
The city was dark. The stars were bright.
"I'm going to miss her," Christabel said.
"Even after everything?"
"Especially after everything."
"Why?"
"Because she was my mother. Because she gave me life. Because without her, I wouldn't be here."
"You wouldn't be here."
"I wouldn't have Lena."
"No."
"I wouldn't have you."
"No."
"So I have to be grateful. Even if I'm angry. Even if I'm sad. Even if I don't know how to feel."
---
Damien put his arm around her.
"That's the bravest thing you've ever said."
"It doesn't feel brave."
"It never does."
---
They stayed in the garden until the sun came up.
Talking.
Remembering.
Crying.
"When I was a little girl," Christabel said, "I used to think my mother was invincible. That nothing could hurt her. That she would live forever."
"We all think that about our parents."
"And then they die."
"And then they die."
"And we realize they were just people."
"Just people."
"People who made mistakes."
"People who loved us."
"People who failed us."
"People who tried."
---
Christabel leaned her head on his shoulder.
"I'm tired."
"Then sleep."
"I can't."
"Why not?"
"Because I'm afraid of what I'll dream."
"Then don't dream. Just rest."
---
She closed her eyes.
Damien held her.
The sun rose over the city.
Pink and gold and orange.
"I love you," she whispered.
"I know."
"I love you so much it hurts."
"That's what love does."
"It shouldn't."
"It does."
---
That afternoon, Christabel went back to the hospital.
Not to see her mother.
To collect her things.
A box. Small. Wooden. The same box her grandfather had left her.
Inside were photographs. Letters. A locket.
She opened the locket.
Her mother's face. Her father's face.
Both of them young. Both of them happy. Both of them in love.
"They were happy once," Christabel said.
"They were."
"What happened?"
"Life."
---
She closed the locket.
Put it in her pocket.
Walked out of the hospital.
Into the city.
Damien was waiting in the car.
"Are you okay?"
"I will be."
"What's in the box?"
"Memories."
"Good ones?"
"Some."
"And the others?"
She looked at him.
"They're mine to carry."