11. Willow
11
WILLOW
I can’t believe I did that at my father’s funeral. Of all the places, of all the moments, why there? Why then? But Vincent… he gets me so riled up. He knows exactly how to push every button, how to unravel me in ways I don’t know how to control. And honestly? I’m not sure I even want to anymore. Sometimes he consumes me. Actually, scratch that. Most times, they all do—every single one of them. And what am I supposed to do when three men are constantly consuming all of my senses, each of them so damn powerful, so overwhelming in their own way?
The driver who Cast had waiting for me, along with a bodyguard, doesn’t question me when I tell them to drive me home. Well, my real home, the one that still smells like sandalwood and lilacs, the way my father always did.
I know I will still be able to feel him there. I will still feel the pieces of him—the little things I never thought I’d miss. The warmth of his laughter, the soft way he’d tell me everything would be alright, even when nothing was.
We pull up to the house, the familiar sight of it taking me back to a time when everything felt... simpler. The front porch, the old swing that creaked in the wind, the garden that my dad used to tend to with such care. It’s all still here, just as I remember it. But it feels different now. He’s gone. And the place doesn’t feel like home without him.
I step out of the car and the guard follows, the grief I am feeling settles over me as I make my way toward the door. I push the door open, surprised it’s not locked like normal, but dread fills my chest when I realize Dad used to lock it and if he left it to me the door would always be unlocked. The faint sound of music drifts toward me. The familiar scent of sandalwood and lilacs, the smell of him, still lingers in the air.
At first, it’s soft, almost imperceptible, like a whisper in the distance. But as I walk in, it grows clearer. The soft, melodic tones of a song—one I’ve heard a hundred times before, growing up. It’s the one he always played on rainy days, the sound of raindrops tapping against windows, a lullaby to the chaos of life. It’s my father’s favorite song.
I step further into the house, my breath catching in my throat as I follow the sound, drawn like a magnet. The music tugs at me, a pull I can’t escape, even if I wanted to. It’s so familiar—too familiar.
The guard moves in behind me, his gun raised, his presence a jarring contrast to the soothing hum of music drifting from deeper inside the house.
“Stay outside,” I say, my voice firm.
He doesn’t lower his weapon. “That’s not happening.”
I turn to face him, my jaw tight. “This is my father’s house. I’m not going to let you storm in here like it’s a war zone.”
He scoffs, scanning the room like he expects someone to jump out at any second. “With all due respect, Miss Castillo, we don’t know who’s inside. This could be a trap.”
I cross my arms, ignoring how my heart beats faster at the sound of Miss Castillo . “Then I’ll deal with it. If I need you, I’ll scream.”
His expression darkens. “That’s not how this works.”
I step closer, my voice dropping. “I’m not asking you. I’m telling you. Stay. Outside.”
He hesitates, his grip tightening on his gun, but he knows better than to argue. He nods sharply, stepping back, muscles coiled like he’s just waiting for an excuse to rush in.
Satisfied, I turn away and walk past the foyer into the living room, my heartbeat pounding in my ears. Every step feels heavier, like I’m walking through a past I no longer belong to.
And that’s when I see her.
She’s sitting in the living room, her back to me, her fingers dancing over the piano keys with a grace that feels almost otherworldly. The soft, melodic notes fill the room, swirling around me like a warm embrace. But it’s not warmth that seizes my chest. It’s ice.
Her wild, curly salt-and-pepper hair falls around her shoulders like a storm caught in time, as if the years of absence had only made it wilder, stronger, more untamed. It’s her. It’s the woman who disappeared from my life long before I had the chance to understand her. The woman I’ve spent years mourning, cursing, wondering about.
I stand frozen in the doorway, my heart thundering in my chest as I watch her play. The way she moves, the curve of her back as she sways with the rhythm—it’s me . I see myself in her every way. It’s as though time has bent back on itself, and in this moment, she is both the past and the present. And I—I am caught in the middle.
For a moment, I forget how to breathe. Forget that I am supposed to be angry. Forget that she left me. All I can think of is the melody, the song, and the woman who created it.
I don’t even realize I’ve spoken until the word slips from my lips, shaky and raw: “Mom?”
She doesn’t stop playing. Her fingers keep moving across the keys, smooth and steady, as if the sound is more important than anything I have to say. But then, slowly, she turns. Her face is older, worn, the lines around her eyes deeper than I remember, but they’re still the same eyes—the same hazel eyes that mirrored mine when I was little.
“Willow…” Her voice is softer than I expected, like a whispered apology, and it shatters me. Her lips tremble slightly, but she doesn’t move to stand. Doesn’t reach out for me. She just looks at me, a stranger in her own home. “You’ve grown so much.”
“I—” My voice cracks, and I hate myself for it. Hate how weak I sound, like a child. “I don’t understand. Where have you been?” The words come out in a rush, desperate; I’ve been holding them in for years, and now, they’ve finally broken free.
She drops her hands from the piano, the music coming to an abrupt end, and the silence fills the space like a thick fog. She’s still sitting, staring at me with that same haunted look in her eyes, and for a moment, I think she might say something, but she doesn’t.
My feet move before my mind catches up, and before I know it, I’m standing in front of her. My heart is racing. The room spins. The anger that’s been building inside me for years, the years of abandonment and unanswered questions, erupts in a violent rush.
"Where were you?" My voice cracks, each word cutting deeper than I want it to. “Where the hell have you been all this time?”
She stands then, slowly, cautiously, like she’s afraid I might break under the weight of her presence. But when she moves toward me, she doesn’t say anything more. Her arms open, as if it’s instinct, and without thinking, I step into her embrace.
And she pulls me close. Her arms wrap around me so tightly, so desperately, as if she’s afraid to let me go. Her breath hitches, and for the first time since I’ve known her, I feel her tears fall onto my hair, her body trembling as she holds me.
“I’m so sorry, Flower,” she whispers, her voice thick with emotion, breaking with each word. “I’m so sorry I wasn’t there. I—I never planned to leave you. I never wanted to hurt you.”
The pain I’ve carried for so long claws at me, bitter and raw, but I can’t move. I can’t pull away. For the first time, I’m here in her arms, and she’s real . I can feel her, her warmth, her heartbeat, the rhythm of her breath against mine. And yet, it doesn’t make the anger go away. It doesn’t make all the years of longing and resentment vanish.
“I needed you,” I choke out, the words bitter, impossible to swallow. “You weren’t there. I needed you.”
She shakes her head, her grip tightening around me, as though she’s trying to apologize without words. Her voice breaks again, strained with sorrow. “I know, baby. I know, and I can’t take that back. I can’t change the past. But I’m here now. I’m here, and I’ll do anything to make it right.”
She can’t fix it. She can’t fix what’s been broken for so long. No matter how much she holds me, no matter how much she cries, it won’t change the fact that she wasn’t there when I needed her the most. She wasn’t there for me when I was a child, when I was left to navigate the mess of my own life alone.
I want to pull away. To push her off, to scream at her for all the pain she caused. But in her arms, I feel like a part of me is finally being held again, even if it's only for a moment.
My mother tightens her hold on me, her body trembling with emotion, her breath shaky against my hair. I can feel her pain in the way she clings to me, like I’m the one thing she’s afraid to lose again. She pulls back slightly, just enough to look me in the eyes.
“I missed you, Willow,” she whispers, her voice thick with unshed tears. “I missed you so much. Every single day, I’ve thought about you, about what I should have done. But I wasn’t strong enough. I—I couldn’t be what you needed, but I never stopped thinking about you. Never stopped wishing I could be there.”
I blink rapidly, fighting back the tears, and before I even realize it, the words come tumbling out, choked and ragged. “I missed you too,” I say, the truth burning my throat. “I missed you more than I can even say.”
She closes her eyes. Her arms tighten around me again, her sobs muffled against my shoulder. “I’m so sorry,” she whispers, her voice trembling. “I’m so sorry I couldn’t be there for you. I didn’t deserve you, but I love you. I never stopped loving you.”
I pull away from her, the heat of anger rising, mixing with the ache I’ve buried deep inside.
“Why?” I demand, my voice shaking but fierce. “Why did you leave me? You were my mom. You were supposed to be there.”
She opens her mouth, but no words come out for a moment, like she’s trying to form the right ones, the ones that will finally make it okay.
She tries to reach for me, but I step back.“You’re not my mom,” I say through clenched teeth, the words coming out colder than I mean them to. “ You left, and I grew up without you. And now, you don’t get to come back and act like everything’s fine. Get out,”
“What?’
“I don’t want you here. I don’t want this. Not now. Not ever.”
For a long moment, she doesn’t move. She just stands there, staring at me, like she’s waiting for me to change my mind. But when I don’t she nods, her eyes clouded with tears, and she turns toward the door.
The door slams shut behind her with a finality that reverberates through the house. The silence that follows is almost suffocating, but somehow it feels right.
I slide to the floor, my back against the wall, and the tears fall freely.