Day 13: Smoke
@kingdonmicrofic | 500 words | Rated T | Read on ao3 | Previous installments here | TW: mentions of parental death, discussions of grief and motherhood
October 27, 2030 (10 months post-wedding)
After almost a decade of being responsible for everything alone, it took Mel a long time to adjust to her newfound freedom. To discover who Mel King really was—what she liked, what she wanted.
Though she’d started that process before she and Frank began dating, being with him helped. For the first time since her mother’s death, Mel had someone else to help carry the weight.
However, some things she needed to do alone.
She planned this for a day when Frank would be out of the house for a while, running errands after dropping off the kids at Abby’s. He would’ve helped her if she asked, but she knew she needed to do this solo. Mel often needed space to process. No one knew that better than Frank.
She pulled the bin down from the attic and into the spare bedroom, dust and cobwebs wiped away.
As she opened the bin, the familiar scent of smoke hit her nostrils, like a kiss from beyond the grave. Pulling out the baby blanket, she traced her fingers over the embroidery, ‘Melissa’ stitched in lilac thread, as the memories came.
Before they explained why, Mel sometimes got angry when their parents treated her and Becca differently.
“It’s not fair. When I’m a mom, I won’t do that. When I’m a mom, my kids will be equal.” This was the inner monologue of a child who’d yet to realize parents aren’t gods. Rather, they are made of flesh and bone—fallible, human, mortal.
At her bedside years later, Mel watched her mother’s vitality slowly fade away. There just wasn’t enough time to answer all the questions Mel wanted to ask.
Holding the blanket to her chest, Mel let herself cry. For the girl she was. For the woman she is now, ready to become a mother without her own.
She’ll never experience that sacred shared bond between mother and daughter as the daughter has her own daughter (or son).
She’ll never be able to call, asking what to do when they won’t sleep or eat. When they push someone at recess or get a D in math. When the first teenaged wail of “I hate you, mom!” cuts like a knife.
Mel let the tears fall as she assessed each item, the onesies, rattles, and toys. A stuffed pink bear, a cute rubber ducky, a pair of crocheted booties.
By the time the bin was empty, a smile replaced the tears as she surveyed her artful display on the bed, ready to show Frank when he came home.
She was terrified of taking this step and losing him, like her mother had. She’d already lost so much, grieved for so long. She couldn’t let that fear steal this from her too.
She’d asked Frank to give her a year, and that year was coming to an end. The hole in her heart, the space in her womb, the room she currently stood in, were all yearning to be filled.
Mel couldn’t wait.
