Page 1 of Of Heather and Thistle

The last time Heather saw her mother, the world was still warm.

She remembered the scent of lavender drifting through the air, the way the afternoon light slanted through the kitchen window, painting golden streaks across the floor. Her mother’s laughter had filled the space between them, soft and lilting, like a melody only they knew.

And then, nothing.

Grief had no shape at nine years old—not the cold precision of condolences, nor the dull ache of longing would settle into her bones years later.

It was a sudden and terrible silence. A house too big without its heartbeat.

A father who stumbled more than he stood.

A closet that smelled of her mother’s perfume long after she was gone.

People came and went, their faces blurred by whispered voices and hushed reassurances. “She’s too young to understand.” Or “She’ll forget in time.” But Heather understood enough.

Her mother was gone.

And her father—though still there —was someone else entirely.

The man who once lifted her onto his shoulders and made her laugh with silly voices had been swallowed by something dark and unrelenting.

Brandy replaced warmth. Words slurred into something sharp, something that cut even when she couldn’t understand the meaning.

The man who once tucked her in at night now let doors slam and shadows stretch in long shapes against the walls.

She learned to be quiet. To stay out of his way. To flinch before she even knew why.

Then came Ivy. Her best friend. Bright as summer; fierce as a promise.

She swept into Heather’s life like a breath of fresh air, filling the silence with stories, secrets, laughter, and light.

She gave Heather something to hold onto, something to believe in.

The kind of friendship that wrapped around her like a shield, keeping the worst of the world at bay.

And for a while, it was enough.

But grief does not fade—it lingers, waiting for the right moment to resurface. And years later, when Heather stood at her father’s grave, she realized the past never truly lets go.