Pronunciation Guide

Friday, June 27, 2014

“M” is for mother

She left her hometown and got married on her sixteenth birthday to a man she barely knew. He was nice enough, but his status intimidated her, and she struggled to believe he could actually care about her too. He did care, but she confused him and he didn’t know what he was doing wrong. About a year and a half later, she gave birth to a daughter. Their feelings of inadequacy multiplied, exacerbated by the strain of caring for a newborn. His duties called him away from home more often than not, and when he was home, she was busy with the baby or exhausted. Feelings of neglect grew in silence, spread roots of bitterness and frustration through both.

Unable to understand his wife’s distance and feeling alone and unwanted, he sought solace in another. His guilt intensified their distance, but though she felt it, she didn’t understand. Then circumstances transpired and the truth revealed itself. Reeling, she ran. Ran from the town, from the scene they didn’t know she’d witnessed. Ran toward the forest, where she finally collapsed in sobs.

Darkness fell and the guards closed the gate. With her outside.

The enemy found her, but he did not harm her. Instead, he spoke kindly, promised protection. Not believing it, she fled to the wall and waited until dawn. She kept quiet about what she’d seen regarding her husband, what had happened. But his betrayal ate away at her, and in desperation, she returned to the forest, seeking the kind enemy man. Ostracized from his home, he too was alone, hurting. Desperate for companionship. Eventually, in her pain and rage, she repeated her husband’s offense.

And she became pregnant.

Thinking they’d run away together, she told the enemy man. But instead of going along with her plan, he ordered her to carry out a new one – to go home to her husband and do everything she could to make him believe the child was his.

Then the enemy man left.

She went home. Did her best to obey, to reconcile her shattered heart with her husband’s shattered heart. The child was born, another girl. Not quite two years later, a nearby town was attacked, and her husband charged to their aid. He did not return.

At barely twenty years old, the young mother was all but alone in the world. She clung to the hope that her second child’s father would return and save her, take her and her children away with him. He didn’t. Her hope turned to disillusionment, disillusionment to aching resentment, and the resentment to seething rage.

She moved back to her hometown, hoping to forget it all, hoping for some sense of healing. But the child’s existence reminded her. Constantly mocked her, hurled her pain back in her face, ripped open the wounds. Anger she couldn’t unleash upon the men fell upon the little girl – the result of their abandonment, their selfishness. The source of her pain.

The second daughter grew up knowing only hatred from their mother.

The first daughter grew up doing everything in her power to protect her little sister.

How deep those wounds go, I have yet to discover. But I have seven books within which to do it, so… =)

2 comments:

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    1. I know. It makes me sick. =( Why do I write such awful backstories for my poor people?

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