Chapter 7 - THE MOTHER WHO STOOD SILENT
Abigail's mother arrived in Silverton in March.
Margaret Pierce looked ten years older.
She stood outside the boardinghouse holding a small bag.
Abigail almost shut the door.
Then Margaret said:
“Your brother left.”
“What?”
“Samuel hit him.”
Abigail's anger shifted.
“Where is he?”
“With Reverend Cole.”
Safe.
For now.
Margaret began crying.
“I should've stopped him.”
“Yes.”
No comfort.
Not yet.
“He said if I interfered, he'd leave us all in the snow.”
Abigail stared.
“And you believed him.”
“Yes.”
“You still let him throw me out.”
Margaret covered her mouth.
“Yes.”
Abigail felt something strange.
Not forgiveness.
Relief.
Her mother had finally said it without excuse.
“I hated you.”
Margaret nodded.
“You should.”
“Don't tell me what I should feel.”
Her mother flinched.
Abigail continued.
“I begged you.”
“I know.”
“You looked at me.”
“I know.”
“You cried.”
Margaret broke.
“I was a coward.”
There.
Abigail's anger softened one degree.
Not because cowardice excused anything.
Because truth was finally entering the room.
Margaret handed her the bag.
Inside:
Baby clothes.
Old.
Abigail's.
“I kept them.”
Her throat tightened.
“For what?”
“I don't know.”
Margaret looked toward the twins.
“Perhaps because some part of me knew I was lying when I called them shame.”
Abigail began crying.
Still, she did not hug her mother.
May you like
Not that day.
Forgiveness cannot be ordered by blood.
