Chapter 101: The woman in the photo

Braelyn’s POV

I couldn’t pry my eyes away from the picture. The photograph trembled in my fingers. It was the first picture of my mother I had seen with her looking close to the age she was when she conceived me

The others were of a young lady. One whose eyes were bright

At a corner of the pictures, a name was written, one I recognised from memory.

****

“What was her name, Daddy?” My voice echoed, It was a blurry memory. I was seated on my dad’s lap, going through some old photos. The photo of the woman they said was my mother

The one I never knew. The picture was the same one Amelia tore, the edges of the picture were burnt. Dad’s hand traced the edges of the picture and he whispered a name which felt like a taboo in our home. “Avelina…I used to call her Ava.” He said. His voice choked like he was fighting back a cry…

“Dad, why are you crying?” I asked him, blinking my eyes slowly. His face was wrinkled and looked tired. His black hair had some loose grey strands in the front

Confused, I turned towards my father. My little hands held his face. He wasn’t crying but he looked like he would break at any moment.

Despite the wrinkles, Dad was the most handsome man I knew then in my eyes. I used to hear the maids whisper about how handsome Daddy was. They were disheartened that he chose never to take another wife but Daddy was already an elder in his 50s then

He shook his head then held my little hands. ” I am crying Brae…” He said. “Her name was Ava…” He took a deep breath.

“Your mother’s name is Ava …. little Braelyn..”

*****

A tear dropped on the picture. The top read out her first name Avelina.V. It was truly her

My mother. At least… that was who she was supposed to be.

I stared at the image, waiting for the familiar warmth I always felt whenever I looked at the old framed pictures Dad kept in his study. The same one I took after his death of the vibrant, glowing woman everyone said I took after. Mum was already in her late 40s, close to her 50s, when she conceived me, but everyone described her as stunning and beautiful.

They said she looked younger than her age and was envied for it. Her peers always said it was her childlessness which kept her looking young.

But nothing about this photograph felt right.

This woman looked older than what I remembered from the other photos, even the rare one Dad once showed me, as the most recent photograph he had of her. Her blonde hair, which was usually soft and perfectly curled in the pictures I grew up seeing, was limp, tangled, and streaked with exhaustion.

Her blue eyes that sparkled like gems, held a tiredness so heavy it made something sharp twist in my stomach. She looked like she’d aged years in a matter of days, like the world had drained the light out of her.

She looked depressed like she had given up on life

And the background… it was different from any of the photographs’ backgrounds I had seen before. It wasn’t anywhere I recognised. A dull room with peeling paint. Faint scorch marks on the white walls.

My breath hitched because the more I stared, the more wrong it felt. The woman in my childhood photos looked happy, and glowing. But this woman… Sheuuu looked terrified.

If not for the shape of her face, my face and the distinct combination of blonde hair and blue eyes, I wouldn’t have believed she was the same person at all.

The paper itself was strange too. It wasn’t old or brittle. No yellowing or fading marks an old picture should have. The photograph was too crisp, perfectly preserved in good condition for something that should’ve been over 2 decades old.

A chill crawled down my spine.

Why would anyone keep a photograph of my mother looking like… this? Why would they give it to me? And what fire? What exactly had I been told?

The picture was left differently for me to see, but why?

My mind raced, grasping for answers

I was told very little about my mother but I never questioned it because everyone said she died during childbirth. Everyone insisted there was no more to know.

Yet this picture existed trying to pass a message I didn’t understand.

A heartbeat thundered in my ears. The room seemed to tilt, the air thinning as the message burned through my mind in dark, bold letters.

DON’T BELIEVE EVERYTHING THEY TOLD YOU ABOUT THE FIRE.

My pulse stuttered. A fire…what fire were they talking about? I racked my brains for answers. Then it suddenly clicked

A memory. It was one I would never forget.

*****

The sky was clear with the sun blazing from above, yet it wasn’t hot because of the shade provided by the trees, and the cool spring breeze carried the soft scent of flowers.

It was the second time I was being brought here after the first attempt ended with me fainting because of a serious allergic reaction.

Dad didn’t want to bring me here but I had insisted. I wanted to know. The other children at school were told to bring their mothers to an event.

Naturally, I went with my nanny. I was too young to distinguish the difference between a mother and a nanny after all, the only female caregiver I knew was my Nanny. Agnes was a lovely lady in her mid-thirties and was the one who basically raised me.

She was nicer than the Governess or the head maid, so I was glued to her most of the time Dad wasn’t at home.

That day, when I got to school and had introduced my nanny, the entire class burst out laughing at me. They called me a girl who didn’t have a mother. It broke my little heart, and I ran away from the class crying.

Agnes went after me, trying to soothe me over, but I swore I would never go back there. “Why can’t you be my mummy? You are my mummy.” I had said that because Agnes was like the mother I had heard about.

Her eyes softened at my words, as if she were about to cry. She pulled me into a hug. Her voice was shaky as she said. “I would love to be your mummy, little Braelyn, but I can’t. I am just your nanny.” She had said.

I was still confused in her hands, I had asked with a soft voice. “Why don’t they believe you are my mummy? I don’t care, you are the only mummy I have.” I stubbornly said in her arms

She broke the hug and then held my hand; her eyes were heavy with emotion. Her hold trembled like she was about to say something I would not understand. “We don’t look alike. You have a mummy and your daddy will tell you who one day.” She had said

Now I thought back at it. I was truly naive. As a child, I looked like a little doll. Bright emerald green eyes and dark ebony black hair I always held in buns. My skin was clear like Porcelain, white and almost flawless since I was Daddy’s little girl

My features were a stark difference from Agnes’s. She was pretty, but she had olive-tanned skin, dark, wavy curls, and deep brown eyes. Her facial features were a bit rough on the outside but she was still beautiful.

On first glance, even children could tell she wasn’t my mother. Later that day, Agnes spoke to her father. I had overheard her say. “She needs to know. She deserves to know.”

.

From the corner, I stood peeking into the study, and I could see Daddy and her. I didn’t go in because I knew it was something between adults. “She is too young to handle it ” Daddy had tiredly said that day

I had no idea the truth I was too young to hear would one day change everything.

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