Business magnate's daughter, Isla Templeton (Feather), is the youngest of André Templeton's three children. And the top topic in the upper-class gossip in New York City.
Isla has always been a fighter; after losing her mother at a young age by sui...
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
I gathered the courage to step inside my mother's room. It's been years since I have been here.
Taking a deep breath, I gently pushed the door open. It creaked slightly, the sound echoing softly in the quiet. The room welcomed me with its cool, musty air, heavy with the scent of old books and burnt candles.
The walls were painted a deep, velvety burgundy, just as I remembered them. Against them stood shelves lined with books; their spines faded from years of her fingers tracing their titles. In the corner, the large walnut armoire loomed, as imposing as ever, protecting the remains of her wardrobe.
I remember looking at her dresses with her.
"You can wear one for your eighteenth birthday, feather."
Looking at all the dress bags from all the most expensive brands, just one caught my attention. The white bag had red hearts drawn all around it.
Taking it out to unzip it, there it was, the most perfect green dress I have ever seen. I recognized it from the picture inside the storage box with my mother's cameras. I tried to identify the brand, but it didn't have anything written on it. It was perfect.
It was a green sequin fabric with a golden ribbon on the waist and a beautiful chest cut that perfectly accentuated everything. I don't know if my father would approve of this dress, but he doesn't have to know until the last minute. Like at the party, perhaps.
Sunlight filtered through the dark brown curtains. It highlighted the desk by the window, cluttered with her writing materials—pens lay scattered beside stacks of parchment, a testament to the thoughts she'd left mid-sentence.
Nearby, the high-backed reading chair faced the fireplace, now filled with an array of candles on top of a white sheet.
I stepped further into the room; every detail tugged a string at my heart.
I was afraid of turning around; it felt like she was going to come out of her bathroom to kiss my forehead and say good night, my sweet baby.
Slowly, I sank down to the floor, sitting right in the middle of the room where I used to play when I was a little girl, where she used to sit beside me, brushing my hair and telling me stories. I hugged my knees to my chest, the wood beneath me somehow warm, like it was holding on to a piece of her. I pressed my cheek against my knees, and that's when the first sob escaped.
I miss you, mom. I miss you so much.
The tears came fast after that, spilling down my cheeks, and I didn't even bother to wipe them away. There was no one here to see, no one to comfort me.
My mother had always been that person. She was my world, and it still felt like a part of me had died with her.
I could still hear her voice sometimes. Soft, gentle, telling me everything would be alright. She always knew how to make the world less scary. She would sit with me on her be, stroking my hair and humming lullabies when I had nightmares. But now? Now, I was living in a nightmare, and she wasn't here to make it go away.
