Would my life had been different if she didn't die?
I was told that my mother was the epitome of a perfect woman, at least that's what they say.
Many would envy her because she had everything. Beauty, Wealth, and Love. A beautiful soul with a philanthropic heart, men would flock to her like sheep.
My mother stood out from the rest in my father's eyes, and so did hers.
I was told Father wasn't your typical man.
People described him as aloof and independent, a man who keeps his cards close to his chest. Nobody really knows what he's thinking. He had a way of moving through life as if everything around him were temporary or fragile, like he didn't want to touch anything too deeply in case it disappeared. They say Father was stubborn and carried with him a quiet stillness that some mistook for coldness. He rarely smiled, almost never laughed, and spoke only when necessary. That was the kind of man that he was—or at least the man the world knew.
And then came my mother.
She was light to his shadow, she simply loved him as he was, and in that love, something in him was rewritten.
Mother had his heart and Father had hers.
She loved him and so did he.
And he loved her unconditionally.
But did he love me?
I was told by my extended family that Father became distant and cold towards me after I was born, because it was my fault that my mother died. Mother was already sick before I was even born, and that I made her sickness even worse.
I apologized, over and over again, "I'm sorry, father." but every time, I was always met by a cold shoulder from him.
He blamed me for my mother's death.
He resented me, he despised me, loathed to take revenge for his wife's sake. That man would dream to burn the one who killed his wife at the stake.
The tongues of those who envied and harbored demise to my mother, only spat words laced with poison.
"How pitiful..." one of them had sneered once, her voice dripping with false sympathy. "In all honesty, I couldn't care less that Alice died. That hypocritical woman deserved worse. But you, dear, you should rejoice!"
Another, always with a smug little tilt of the head, he whispered loud enough to echo, "It's a good thing you were born, I suppose your birth is rather, how do I say this... questionable, don't you think?".
And then the one that always stayed with me. Cold. Blunt. Cruel. "You are the sole reason that Alice died. Maybe it would've been better if you hadn't been born at all. Everything about you reeks of misfortune. You're nothing but a bad omen to your bloodline."
"You are a murderer, Aurella."
Their faces blur in my memory now. I was still a child after all, but the words, dear god, they lodged themselves somewhere deep, in the hollows of my chest, festering like old wounds that refused to close.
I don't remember who said what anymore. It doesn't matter. They all sounded the same in the end. Hollow hearts dressed in fine clothes, speaking like they mourned her, but smiling with satisfaction beneath their grief.
What I do remember, vividly, is the ache that followed, the kind that settles in quietly and makes a home in your bones. I was just a child, too young to understand the politics of hate, but old enough to recognize when love had no place in a room.
They tried to make me carry the blame for her death as if it were a shroud I was meant to wear forever. And for a very, very, long time, I did.
The guilt kept eating me alive. It clung to me like a parasite. Some nights, it was all I could feel. I'd find myself standing in front of the mirror, the dim light flickering above the sink, casting shadows across my face. And I'd just stare.
Stare at the reflection that looked so much like them, and yet not enough to ever feel like I belonged.
"You look like a perfect combination of your parents. Though, a pity that your beauty has gone to waste into a child filled with misfortune."
Was I really a murderer? I didn't pull any trigger, didn't wield a knife, but death followed me, nonetheless. And somehow, it always circled back to my birth. The day I entered the world was the day my mother left it.
And then came the question that cut the deepest.
What kind of life could they have had if I had never existed?
"I don't know anymore...". I was too young to understand what was going on, yet I somehow managed to remember what they said but not their faces. Maybe it's because of what I endured that I remembered all those words?
"Forget it," Father said, his voice low and serious. He stood with his back to me as always, unreachable, unreadable, carved from the same cold stone that built the walls of this house.
"I'll be sending you off somewhere else," he continued, still not looking at me. "Somewhere far from here...". His tone held no room for questions, no hint of hesitation. It was a verdict, not a conversation. "Until then, grow up. Face reality in its way. And do not disappoint me, Aurella.
Ever since that day, I haven't been able to forget what Father said. His words weren't loud—they didn't need to be. They carried the weight of finality, like a sentence passed down from a judge who had already made up his mind. I don't know why they stuck with me the way they did. Maybe… maybe my heart clung to them out of desperation, twisting them into something softer, more meaningful.
Like a promise or the closest thing to one he was capable of giving.
Maybe... if I can fulfill his promise, the guilt will lessen...? That the grief would loosen its grip. That I could fill the silence with purpose.
Perhaps if I lived up to his expectations, if I became someone he could be proud of... the hole my mother left behind would shrink, just a little.
I try to be better. Kinder. Stronger. I try to carry myself with dignity, even when the weight of the past threatens to pull me under. I try to walk forward, even when the shadows of what I lost tug at my heels.
I try, even if I don't always succeed. My determination still runs through my veins. It sits inside me, quiet but persistent, like a slow-burning fire that refuses to die out.
So I made a vow. Not out loud, not to anyone else. Just to myself.
I swore that one day, I would uncover the truth of my mother's death. Not just for her, and not even just for Father. But for me. For the child who grew up under suspicion and silence.
I will find out about the truth and bring justice, not just to her memory, but to the life that was left behind in pieces.
And to mine, dear father.