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At last, the torrent of tears subsides, leaving me hollow and spent. Amelia leans back, brushing away the remnants of my grief with a gentleness that cuts through the ache. Her eyes are soft, yet shadowed by her own sorrows.
“You needed this,” she breathes, her voice steady. “You’ve not allowed yourself to grieve, have you?”
I shake my head, the motion weak. My gaze falls to the crushed primrose in my hand, its petals crumpled and bruised—a fitting reflection of the ache that refuses to heal.
“I’m sorry,” I croak, my voice hoarse.
“There’s nothing to be sorry for,” Amelia replies, pressing a kiss to my brow. She takes the flowers from my trembling hands and places them carefully on the bedside table. “Grief is no fault of yours. An absolute burden, but one you need not carry alone. You hear me?”
“But I am sorry,” I whisper, my voice trembling. “I’m sorry for not appreciating them more. For not saying the things I ought to have said. For not being… better.”
Amelia’s sigh is soft. “You were loved as you are, Triona,” her Irish lilt curling around my name. “Not for things said or unsaid. You need not be anything but yourself. And I’d wager now they’d be telling me to knock sense into you for thinking otherwise.”
A weak laugh escapes me, and I know she’s right. Even in the darkest moments, our family always found humour—sometimes sharp, sometimes absurd, but always there. It was how we endured, how we remained whole.
She brushes a strand of hair from my face and stands. “Think you’re ready to face the day?” She asks as she moves about the room.
I go to answer, but my focus goes to the crushed primrose. For a moment, I consider tossing it away, but I pick it up, smoothing the petals as best I can. They’re so very broken, yes, but still so beautiful.
Who left these here?
Through muddled thought, I had not considered before.
“Auntie,” I ask softly.
She turns, pausing in her tidying to look at me. “Did Deidre leave these, or was it you?”
She tilts her head, a sly smile playing on her lips. “Not I, my dear girl, though it seems the type of gesture Deidre would offer. She said not a word to me about it.”
Deidre spent hours learning proper primrose care from my father. I can still see her crouched in the garden beside him, her sharp focus softened by the gentleness of her hands. She’d listen with rapt attention as he explained how to cut the stems just right, how to keep the flowers vibrant for as long as possible.
“I’ll say,” Amelia continues, smiling fondly. “Sometimes, folks can’t always say what they mean with words. Sometimes they use gestures, minor acts of kindness, to say what they feel. It’s an awfully lovely gesture, if you ask me.”
Her words hang between us, and I study her carefully, noticing the way her expression softens. There’s something in the way she speaks, the way her voice dips slightly when she mentions Deidre, that feels significant.
She eyes me as if she’s deciding how much to say.
“You talk about her,” I begin slowly, “in a way that suggests…” My words trail off, the weight of the unfinished thought sitting heavily in the room.
Amelia’s breath hitches, just barely, but it’s enough. She looks at me, her gaze steady but filled with vulnerability, and without a single word, I know.
My chest tightens, and a soft, breathless laugh escapes me. The realisation crashes over me, bright and undeniable, filling me with a warmth so intense it feels like sunlight breaking through a storm.
“You and Deidre,” I whisper, my voice trembling. “You’re…”
“She’s my heart, Triona.”
The pieces fall into place—the seamless way they move together, the reverence in Amelia’s voice whenever she speaks her name.
The confirmation sends a wave of emotion through me—shock, curiosity, and something deeper, something softer. “How long?” I ask, my voice trembling slightly.
A bittersweet smile tugs at her lips. “Long enough to know what it means to love someone with your whole heart and still be afraid of what the world might do to you for it.”
My throat tightens as her words settle into me, heavy and raw. “And you have given her up—for months, every year, for six years—just for me?”
Amelia moves to cup my face. Her eyes meet mine, filled with a fierce, unshakable love. “And I’d do it again a thousand times over.”
Tears blur my vision, spilling over faster than I can wipe them away. “None of you asked for this. You should have lived your lives freely. None of this is worth the cost.”
