The Sister's sorrow

In the dim glow of early dawn, the winds whispered across the English Channel, carrying with them the faint echoes of the past—memories too painful to relive yet impossible to forget. Inside Kensington Palace, Queen Mary II sat alone in her chamber, the weight of the crown resting heavily upon her brow. The news had come quietly, delivered with the gravity befitting such tidings: her father, the deposed King James II, had died in exile.

The letter trembled in her hands as she read the words again, the ink still fresh, as if the news had only just been written. Her father was gone. The man she had not seen in over a decade, the man she had betrayed for the sake of a throne and a cause she believed to be just. Yet, as she stared at the letter, all she could see was the loving father of her childhood, the man who had once cradled her in his arms and told her stories of kings and queens, never knowing that one day, she would sit upon a throne that should have been his.

A sob broke from her lips, unbidden, and she pressed a hand to her mouth to stifle the sound. But the tears would not be stopped. They fell freely now, coursing down her cheeks as the walls of the palace seemed to close in around her. Her father was dead, and she had not been there to say goodbye, to ask for forgiveness, to offer any comfort in his final moments.

She had always known this day would come, had dreaded it with a fear that gnawed at her heart. She had betrayed him—yes, for what she believed was right—but a betrayal nonetheless. The Protestant faith, the crown, the safety of her country—all these had been her reasons, her justifications. But now, in the cold light of dawn, they felt hollow, empty of the comfort she had once sought in them.

Across the palace, another sister grieved in her own way. Anne, younger and less sure of herself than Mary, had taken the news with a stunned silence. She had always been more emotional, more prone to the melancholy that had plagued her since the loss of her only surviving son, William, and the recent death of her beloved husband, George. Her grief was a constant companion, a shadow that followed her through the corridors of power, reminding her of all she had lost.

And now, her father was gone as well.

She had not been close to him in his later years; the religious and political differences had driven a wedge between them that neither could cross. But she remembered, too, the days of her youth when he was simply her father, not a king, not a Catholic, not an exile. She remembered his laughter, his warmth, the way he had looked at her with pride when she took her first steps.

As the memories flooded back, Anne felt her composure break. She sank to her knees beside her bed, her hands clutching at the blankets as if they could anchor her to the present, keep her from being swept away by the torrent of sorrow that threatened to overwhelm her. She had supported the Glorious Revolution, had stood by Mary and William as they took the throne, believing it to be the right course for England. But now, with the finality of death, all those decisions seemed as distant as the stars. All that remained was the pain of a daughter who had lost her father.

The sisters, divided by duty and circumstance, were united in their grief. Yet even in their mourning, the differences that had shaped their lives could not be ignored. Mary, the devout Protestant, wrestled with the guilt of having opposed the man who had given her life. She had never doubted the righteousness of her cause—ensuring the Protestant succession and securing the liberties of England—but the cost now seemed unbearable. Her father had died alone, in a foreign land, deprived of the throne he had once held. And she had been part of the reason why.

Anne's grief was tinged with regret, not just for her father, but for the life she had led, a life marked by loss and separation. The Catholic cause, her father's cause, was something she had never fully understood, yet she could not help but feel a pang of sympathy for it now. James had believed in his faith with a fervor that had cost him his crown and, ultimately, his life. He had been a man out of time, a Catholic king in a Protestant country, trying to hold on to a legacy that had long since slipped away.

In the quiet of their chambers, both sisters prayed—Mary for forgiveness, and Anne for peace. They prayed for the soul of their father, now beyond the reach of crowns and conflicts, a man who had loved his daughters in his own flawed, human way. And in their prayers, perhaps for the first time, they found a measure of understanding, not just of their father, but of themselves.

The Glorious Revolution had brought them power, had changed the course of history, but it had also brought them pain—a pain that would linger long after the politics of the day had faded into memory. As the sun rose over England, casting its light upon the land, Mary and Anne wept not for a king, but for a father, whose death had left them both feeling more alone than ever.