Rose Thorns & Love Letters

41 ➪ Love, Ophelia

•Camilla•

12/3/1891
My dearest Lincoln,
Of all the possible suitors, I choose you. My mama attempted and failed to pair me with Lord Windsworth due to my affection for you. She says you have seven days to call on me. Please call on me.
Love, Ophelia

__________________

My eyes prick with tears as I absentmindedly trace the circular rim of the teacup in front of me. Despite the cool breeze rushing in every time a new customer enters this small cafe, my slightly sweaty thighs do not fail to stick to the sleek wooden surface of the chair.

The chair that sits opposite my grandmother's chair. My supposed dead grandmother.

"Bambina." She offers a melancholic smile. I start as her familiar yet foreign voice darts into my ears. It feels as though I am conversing with the voice of my mother but the deliverer is someone entirely different.

"Sorry," I inaudibly mutter. For the entire ten minutes we have been sat in this small cafe, I have either been taking gradual sips of my tea, silently crying, or zoning out. As I was just now.

The shock that zoomed through my bloodstream paralyzed me so much so to the point that I do not remember anything said after the words mother and dead left my grandmother's mouth.

I do not remember agreeing to talk sitting down and I certainly do not remember making my way here. But lo and behold, here I am.

Everything around me has been mostly white noise. The conversations that fly past, the beeping of car horns, the bell that sounds after the door is pushed open. It all has ran dead. Just like my mother.

"Don't be sorry, Bambina." My grandmother reaches over to touch my forearm. The touch is electric. The touch is filled with lies and mourning. Mourning the loss of a grandmother I never knew but could have.

Mourning the knowledge that kids that I grew up with spent Thanksgivings and Christmases at their grandparents' houses while I never had the chance to do so but could have. Knowing that I could have but wasn't given the chance to hurts too much. That is why I pull away from the contact.

If my grandmother has an issue with my rejection of her touch, she doesn't show it as her hand slowly retreats and cups her other hand. She watches me with knowing eyes and I watch her with perplexed ones. The bags beneath her eyes are the only giveaway of her older age but then again, something tells me those are due to tears and lack of sleep.

"Grandma," I start hesitantly. The word sounds bitter on my tongue. No. Not the word. The fact that I am actually addressing someone as grandma after 20 years of lies is what is bitter. "why were you absent my entire life? Why did you choose to suddenly show up on my twentieth birthday?"

Her stare lingers on my skin before she takes a big deep breath in and begins. "I have been with you for your entire life, Bambina. I only chose to reach out a few months ago."

I blink. "A few—" It hits me for the first time today. I was so distracted by the fact that my alleged dead grandmother has been alive my entire life and my beloved mother is now gone that it didn't register. My grandmother has been behind this torment. The early calls, the ominous texts, the creepy demands—all of it.