Whisper Of Departure And Hidden Past

The abrupt sound of a slamming door jolted me from my sleep, instantly bringing me to full alertness, my heart racing. A man's voice erupted in a shout, followed by the resonating echo of my mother's voice, and then a loud crash against a wall. With urgency coursing through me, I hurriedly swung my legs out of bed and swiftly unlocked my bedroom door. Just as I stumbled into the living room, the front door to our modest trailer banged shut with a forceful finality.

There stood my mom, disheveled and draped in a worn-out bathrobe, at the entrance of her slightly ajar bedroom. Her fiery red hair was in disarray, and smeared lipstick adorned her mouth. Even though she wasn't actively crying, the streaks left by her mascara hinted at recent tears.

"Are you alright?" I inquired, concern lacing my words.

Slowly, my mother turned away from the partially open door and directed her gaze toward me. In that moment, her eyes widened as if truly seeing me for the first time in a while. Our interactions had dwindled to mere exchanges about her cigarette stash, and any deeper conversations had become rare occurrences. It was as though we inhabited the same space more as roommates than as mother and daughter. This arrangement had suited me in its own way. Somewhere around my fifth grade, she had seemingly given up not only on herself but also on any attempts to guide me. I had made futile efforts to uplift her spirits for a period, but eventually, I resigned to reality, procured a job, and began purchasing my own groceries.

Shortly after the initial power outage, a turning point seemed to occur. Male visitors began frequenting our trailer, coinciding with the return of electricity. I had learned not to ask questions, understanding that a divide had grown between us, forever altering the nature of our relationship.

"Mom, did he hurt you?" I ventured, hoping to bridge the gap even just a little.

"Everything's alright, don't worry. The full moon's out tonight. You know how things can get," she remarked.

"Yeah," I replied.

"How's work?" Tying her robe securely, she made her way to the compact kitchen.

"Fine." I wasn't entirely sure of her intentions. Meaningful conversations had become an anomaly between us.

"Coffee?" She held up a bag of coffee grounds.

I nodded, then stood there in silence, observing her routine as she went through the motions of placing a filter, scooping coffee grounds, and filling the pot with water. Though I was aware she brewed herself a daily cup of coffee, our schedules rarely aligned, with me being at school when she indulged. Once I returned home, I would cool the leftover coffee with ice and dispose of the used grounds.

"You're departing tonight, aren't you?" Her question arose without her lifting her gaze.

The coffee pot emitted gurgles and sputters as it percolated. I tore my attention away from the appliance to meet my mother's eyes. She was a disheveled sight, and a pang of empathy washed over me. Over time, I had developed a knack for shielding myself from the reality, reminding myself of how poorly she had treated me in the recent years. Yet, the impending farewell seemed to shift my perspective. I pitied her; she had been handed a life without choices. The mistakes weren't hers to bear, yet I couldn't remain in this place. Not even for her. There was a sense of helplessness.

"I'll leave as soon as the enchantment releases me," I responded.

"Good," she acknowledged.

"Will you manage all right?" This question had flitted through my mind on multiple occasions, but I had always halted myself from asking. The truth was evident—she wouldn't be alright, and we both understood that. The burden of self-care would fall upon her shoulders, a responsibility she might not be up for.

"Don't concern yourself with me," she stated.

"I won't be returning once I leave," I disclosed to her, though I couldn't entirely fathom my own reasons for sharing it. Still, it felt like something she should hear.

"I hope you never do," she responded, conjuring a smile that appeared strained. She pivoted towards the cupboard, retrieving two coffee mugs. Placing them on the counter, she then reached for the coffee pot, pouring coffee into both mugs before handing one to me. We both shared a preference for our coffee unadulterated—black, sans milk or sugar. Luxuries of such kind weren't practical on our limited budget. The initial bitterness of black coffee took some getting used to in my younger years, but now it had become a constant in my daily routine, a point of connection between us.

"This place wasn't meant for you," she asserted, her gaze locked onto mine. "You're far too good to be among these wolves. I'm sorry I entangled you here."

Confusion knitted my brow. "What are you talking about?"

Her exhale seemed to carry a weight of the past. "Your father wasn't a local. I left, had a life—a good one. But when I became pregnant, fear led me back. Upon my return, my father was in dire straits, and I remained to help. I hadn't intended to stay, but you arrived earlier than expected, and the magic... it took hold of you. Had I left, you would've been trapped here."

"I don't understand," I admitted. "I always thought you had been here all along."

"It doesn't matter. My return nullified any good from my time away."

"You've never mentioned my father before," I said, a tinge of reproach in my voice.

"He's likely long gone. He never even knew I was carrying you."

"Was he a shifter?" I inquired.

A nod from her. "He was oblivious to our secret. I feared he'd discover your inability to shift and abandon you."

"It couldn't have been worse than growing up here, Mom," I countered.

"Believe me, there are things more dreadful than Wolf Bay and the suffering we've endured," she replied, taking a sip of her coffee. "You're better off without him."

"That makes no sense. He wouldn't have realized I couldn't shift until I was nineteen. I could've had a whole life feeling loved and safe. How could you deny me that?" My positive sentiments toward her were quickly unraveling. How could she do this to her unborn child? And how had she concealed this truth for so long?

"He would've discovered far earlier, and the outcome would have been catastrophic for both of us," she explained. "Promise me you won't search for your father. He'd only bring you pain."

"How could I? I know nothing about him," I retorted.

"Good." She departed from the kitchen, pausing by her bedroom door. "Stay safe out there."

I stood in the kitchen, my untouched coffee bearing witness as she shut the door behind her. "That's it? No farewell?"

While I hadn't anticipated an emotional or profound goodbye, I had expected something more than this. What was I supposed to do with this newfound knowledge? Why reveal my father's identity now? And how could the prospect of living with parents beyond the confines of this place be worse than enduring the weekly beatings?