Chapter 14: The Mother’s Legacy–1
Chapter 14: The Mother’s Legacy
(Olivia’s POV)
The snow had just stopped falling over Riverdale. The sky cleared to a brilliant blue, making the snow–laden trees sparkle like they were covered in diamonds.
I remember that day so vividly. I was only twelve, sitting in the backseat of my father’s car as we drove to pick up my mother from the hospital. The doctors had finally released her to come
home.
My father, Richard Winters, gripped the steering wheel tightly. His knuckles were white with tension. The silence between my parents was heavy, almost suffocating, but I didn’t notice it then. I was too busy fogging up the window with my breath, using my finger to draw pictures
on the glass.
“Look, Mama!” I chirped happily, pointing to my creation. “It’s us!”
I had drawn our family of three–stick figures holding hands under a smiling sun. My heart was overflowing with joy. Mama was finally coming home.
My mother turned in her seat to look at my childish artwork. Something flickered across her face–a shadow of pain that I was too young to recognize. Her beautiful amber eyes, so like my own, quickly reddened with unshed tears.
She quietly wiped them away before I could notice, forcing a gentle smile to her pale lips.
“Your birthday is coming soon, Livvy,” she said softly. “What present would you like?”
I continued drawing on the foggy window, adding a house with smoke curling from the
chimney.
“Mama, I want a wolf figurine,” I replied without looking up.
“A wolf figurine?” My mother sounded puzzled. “Do you mean a carving?”
I shook my head eagerly, finally turning to face her. “No, it’s a ceramic wolf! I want a light blue
ceramic wolf.”
My eyes sparkled with excitement as I explained, “Becky said there’s a new DIY workshop on Moon Street. We can buy an unpainted ceramic wolf and color it ourselves!”
“Last week, Becky and Jason went and painted two really cute figurines,” I added, bouncing
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< Chapter 14 The Mother’s Leg
slightly in my seat.
$25 Puntos >
My mother’s smile grew gentler, more genuine. “Alright, whatever my Livvy wants, Mama will
do with you.”
On my twelfth birthday, heavy snow blanketed Riverdale again. My mother and I walked hand
in hand into the DIY workshop, our footprints marking a trail behind us in the fresh snow.
We had pre–ordered a plain ceramic wolf figurine. The owner handed it over immediately, and
my mother and I sat at a small table by the window, carefully selecting colors and brushes.
Together, we painted the figurine light blue–my favorite color. My mother’s hands were thin
and trembling slightly, but her brushstrokes were still precise and elegant. It was our first ever
joint creation.
When we finished, I held up the figurine to the light, turning it this way and that to admire our
work.
“It’s beautiful, Mama! Even prettier than I imagined!”
My mother smiled, her amber eyes soft with love. “It is beautiful, just like you.”
Afterward, we stopped at a nearby bakery and bought a small chocolate cake with strawberries–my favorite. My mother carried the cake in one hand and held my tiny palm in the other as we trudged through the swirling snow toward the parking lot where my father
waited.
Suddenly, she stopped walking. I looked up at her, confused.
She turned to gaze at me with such deep tenderness that even my young heart recognized something important was happening. Her breath formed small clouds in the cold air as she whispered, “Livvy, Mama loves you. Loves you very, very much.”
Her soft voice scattered quickly in the cold wind.
My nose was red from the cold, and I sniffled slightly. I was used to my mother saying such things, so I cheerfully replied, “Mama, Livvy loves you too!”
I didn’t understand why her eyes filled with tears. I didn’t know that she was saying goodbye.
My mother’s nose tingled with emotion, and she turned away quickly so I wouldn’t see her cry. She tugged gently on my hand, and we continued walking through the crowd, crossing the bustling pedestrian street to reach the open–air parking lot.
My father was waiting outside his car, smoking a cigarette–something he rarely did. His face. wore an expression I’d never seen before: sorrow and loneliness etched into every line. When
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< Chapter 14: The Mother’s Leg
+25 Puntos >
he noticed us approaching, he quickly masked his grief and put on his usual stern expression.
I wondered if I’d imagined that moment of vulnerability.
He stubbed out his cigarette and said hoarsely, “You’re back.”
“Yes,” my mother answered quietly.
That night, my father personally cooked dinner–another rarity. Our small family gathered happily around the table. I wore a paper birthday crown that my mother had made, made a wish, and blew out the twelve candles on my cake.