“You know I can’t, my love,” is all she can muster.
“Please, Mama. Let me do all the chores today.” I snatch both lists as she closes her eyes to consider.
“Please,” I coax, squeezing her shoulder as I lean over to kiss her temple.
“If you insist. But you’ll need to do them all, or wake me if you can’t finish them on your own.” Her instructions are clear, but I catch the hesitation in her tone.
“I can do them all, Mama. Trust me.”
“I do trust you, Mercy. You still need to wake me after lunch. Promise me, so I can send you to the market for fresh soup while I bake the bread and finish my sewing.”
“I promise, Mama.”
“Good. Tomorrow, you can deliver the dress for me to Mrs. Davenport and collect the remaining payment,” my mother says, adding a chore to tomorrow’s list.
I nod in silent acknowledgment before helping my mother back to bed, tucking her in, and kissing her forehead gently. Sometimes it feels like I’m the parent, but it’s not her fault. She tries so hard to be strong for me. We take care of each other, and I always will. The fierce, protective love I have for my mother is unfathomable. My father doesn’t care about her one bit, and she deserves to be loved by someone in this cruel, lonely world. Often I find myself wishing he would just leave; we’d be better off without him.
I don’t have time to waste my daydreams dwelling on a man I’ve grown to hate. Instead, I bustle about my chores, scrubbing and sweeping, dusting and tidying, until the house sparkles. Outside, I tend the garden and pull the dry clothes from the line. After I finish hanging the new batch of freshly washed ones, I make myway inside, delighted to have enough time to prepare the bread for my mother. But when I glance at the old clock, I realize I’ve completely lost track of time. I need to wake my mother so I can venture out for the fish.
A smile spreads slowly across my face. If only the market were near the circus. Leaning against the paper-thin walls, I close my eyes and picture Azrael. In my memories, I replay yesterday, remembering the way his fingers sent electricity coursing up my arm from his touch. He’s holding my heart captive, ensnared in his confusing web. I want to hate him for pushing me away, for never looking at me the way I look at him. We’ve only ever been friends, nothing more, despite the thousands of times I told him I planned to marry him when I turned thirteen.
Back then, we’d lie in the tall grass by the old abandoned boxcar. We turned it into our secret clubhouse—a world of our own. That was a few years before he started pulling away, before he grew too old for my games and nonsense.
He laughs, obviously caught off guard and uncomfortable. “Why would you waste your time on someone like me? There’s nothing for you with me. You need to stop being childish. You need to forget about me, Mercy.”
And he walked away.
A few years later, we sat behind the clubhouse, older but still clinging to the illusion that nothing had changed between us. The sky was painted in streaks of dusty pink. The remains of a picnic I begged him to stay for spread between us. I told himhow my father planned to marry me off once I was old enough, hoping he would say something to stop it. I searched his face for a promise, a plan, anything that might save me.
Instead, he cupped my cheek, kissed the tip of my nose, and whispered, “We can’t do this anymore, Mercy. You need to forget about me. I’m not good enough for you. We would never work together.”
He didn’t even hesitate or look back once, mumbling more to himself than to me, “You deserve someone better.”
All I could do was watch as he trudged away. I never understood his reaction that day, but looking back now, it all makes sense. I was so caught up in my childish adventures I never noticed the way he was growing up and changing. How different we’d become.
The teardrops well in my eyes, threatening to spill, but I swipe them away before they can fall. It’s been so long since we’ve spoken to one another. These days, it’s always fleeting moments and brief conversations in passing that leave me with more questions than answers. My heart aches for him. Even if we couldn’t be anything more than friends, I miss him, and I need him. We could be happy together if only he shared the same feelings toward me.
But if I’m not what he wants… then why does he always wait for me with a golden flower?
My mind dares to whisper a far-fetched fantasy—maybe he lied.
I shake my head at the nonsensical thought. It’s utterly ridiculous. Still, part of me believes he’ll always be there—like a guardian angel, like he already knows our future.
Not quite ready to wake my poor sleeping mother, I sneak into my bedroom and scoop up the marigold, cradling it carefully to my heart before lifting it to my nose. I breathe in the sweet scent, eyes drifting closed as the memory of last night replays in my mind. It feels so real, like the ghost of his fingers still lingers on my skin. A shiver runs through me, and I’m suddenly back in my room, staring into the looking glass, holding the flower, a wistful, far-off look plastered on my face.
I smile at my reflection, then weave and braid the flower into my hair. When I finish, the marigold is nestled beautifully in my strawberry-blonde hair. I wonder if my mother will be suspicious—or if she’ll even notice at all. I look presentable for a trip to the fish market, and honestly, that’s all that matters. My mother might suspect, but she’s never questioned where the flowers come from or who I spent my time with.
Thank the Divine she keeps my secrets, because if my father ever found out, it wouldn’t just be trouble for Azrael… it would destroy any chance I have to escape my future. I would never be allowed outside the house unescorted again, not until he’s married me off and sold my virginity.
I breathe an angry sigh. It’s only a matter of time before he makes a deal. As soon as someone offers him the right number, I’ll be nothing more than a payoff.
Biting back a sob, I pat a few loose hairs into place, then turn to walk across the hall. It’s time to wake my mother.
In her room, I’m surprised to find the bed empty and neatly made.
“Mama,” I call out, my voice full of panic, aching with distress.
“I’m here. I’m alright, Mercy,” she calls from the kitchen. “I woke while you were braiding your hair and did not want to disturb you. I came out here to find the bread already made and only the sewing left to do.”
