Page 32 of Entwined
The memories were bittersweet. Back then, life had been simpler, my world smaller. My mother’s sewing had been a constant, a quiet act of love that stitched our family together in ways I hadn’t appreciated until now. I could picture her, sitting at that very machine, her brow furrowed in concentration as she carefully pinned the fabric, her foot tapping the pedal rhythmically.
I held the pattern to my chest, leaning back against the wall as a wave of nostalgia washed over me. This room, with its clutter of threads and fabrics, the old patterns and the worn sewing machine, was a sanctuary of its own. It was a place where my mother had created, a testament to her patience and care.
I sighed and closed my eyes, letting the memories take over. The scent of fabric and the sound of the machine humming softly filled my mind. I could almost feel my mother’s presence here, even though she was miles away at work. This house, though new, held echoes of the life we’d built together as a family. It was a different chapter, but the story was the same.
This was where I belonged. Not in the boardrooms or behind the polished desks, but here, surrounded by the tangible remindersof my parents' love and the life they had made. This was home and by extension, my home.
As I continued rummaging through the closet, nostalgia tugged at my heart. I was searching for anything that might reconnect me to the simplicity of my childhood. My fingers brushed against a small, dusty box high on one of the shelves. Curiosity piqued, I carefully pulled it down and flipped open the cover. Inside, a stack of neatly tied letters greeted me, all addressed to my mother.
The handwriting on the envelopes was unmistakable. I’d seen it countless times before, scrawled across documents, notes, and even birthday cards. My breath hitched as I realized who had penned these letters. Colson Ashworth.
My hands trembled as I reached for one of the envelopes, pulling it free from the stack. I hesitated, a wave of unease washing over me, but the need to know overpowered the fear gnawing at my gut. With a deep breath, I slid the letter out and unfolded it, the paper crackling softly in the quiet room.
The words were full of love, passionate and earnest, dated thirty years ago. Colson had written to my mother, professing a love so deep it was almost palpable. He spoke of a future they would build together, one filled with promise and hope—a future that, for whatever reason, never came to be.
A sick feeling twisted in my stomach as I read the words, each one hitting me like a blow. My mind raced, questions swirling in a storm of confusion and dread. Was I nothing more than a replacement for the woman he had truly loved? Had I been living in the shadow of a love that was never mine to begin with?
The thought terrified me. I’d wondered about it before, in passing moments when Colson’s gaze lingered on me a little too long, or when he’d made comments that felt more personal than they should have. But now, with this letter in my hands, the possibility loomed larger, more real than ever.
I felt a wave of nausea rise in my throat, and I quickly folded the letter back up, shoving it into the envelope as if that could somehow contain the fear that was threatening to overwhelm me. My chest tightened, and I struggled to steady my breathing. The walls of the room seemed to close in on me as I placed the box back on the shelf, my hands still shaking.
I stumbled back, my mind racing with the implications of what I’d just discovered. Had my entire life been shaped by a love that wasn’t mine? Was I destined to repeat the same cycle, forever chasing the ghost of a relationship that should have been? The questions echoed in my mind, relentless and unforgiving.
I sank to the floor, my back against the closet door, trying to make sense of it all. But the truth was, I didn’t have any answers—only more doubts, more fears. And the terrifying realization that perhaps, in Colson’s eyes, I had never truly been Josephine. I had always been a reflection of the woman he had lost, a shadow of the love that had slipped through his fingers.
And now, as I sat there in the silence of my parents’ home, I wasn’t sure how to reconcile the pieces of my life that suddenly didn’t seem to fit together anymore.
I waited for my mother to come home, the weight of the discovery pressing heavily on my chest. My father wouldn’t behome for at least three more hours, and I needed to speak with her before he arrived. When the front door finally creaked open, I heard her familiar footsteps, the scent of vanilla and sugar wafting through the air before she even stepped into the room.
Her chef’s coat was stained from a day at the bakery, the sweet smell of cupcakes and cookies clinging to her. But the moment she saw my face, her expression shifted. She knew.
She always knew.
My mother never lied to me, and I didn’t intend to hold her past against her. But I needed answers. I needed to know how deep her connection to Colson went, and what she felt when he chose me—her daughter—as his wife.
"Mom..." I began, my voice trembling slightly.
She cut me off, raising her hand to silence me. Without a word, she slipped off her coat and walked over to the stove, setting the kettle down to make tea. The clattering of the mugs she pulled from the cabinet filled the silence between us.
"You found them, didn’t you?" she asked, her voice steady but laced with a weariness that made my heart ache.
My face flushed with embarrassment. I hadn’t meant to invade her privacy. I was only looking for pieces of my childhood, something to ground me. I never expected to find those letters.
"Mom, why did you keep them?" I asked, my voice barely above a whisper.
She shook her head, her back still turned to me as she placed the mugs on the counter. The silence stretched on, the only sound the soft bubbling of the kettle as it began to heat.
"I don’t know," she finally said, her voice soft, almost distant.
I took a step closer, needing to see her face, to understand what she was feeling. "You don’t know?" I echoed, searching for clarity in her words.
She turned to me then, her eyes filled with a mixture of sadness and something else I couldn’t quite place. "Maybe... maybe I kept them because they were a part of my past that I couldn’t fully let go of," she admitted, her gaze dropping to the floor. "But they don’t mean anything now. Not the way they did back then."
My heart pounded in my chest, the unspoken words hanging between us like a thick fog. "Did you love him?" I asked, the question slipping out before I could stop myself.
She met my eyes, her expression pained. "It was a long time ago, Joey. What I felt back then... it doesn’t matter anymore."
"But it does to me," I insisted, my voice trembling with emotion. "I need to know how you felt when he chose me, Mom. How did it feel to watch him marry your daughter?"
