Intoned Resonance

2.

Iris—the woman who looks nothing like my mother. Pale as a ghost, with large, round green eyes framed by long lashes. Her honey-gold, streaked hair is so silky and long; it's to die for. She's tall and captivating to look at.

She's charismatic and unafraid to speak up, no matter who she's talking to, even my father. And he loved that. I can still see it in his eyes to this day. But I kept my thoughts to myself.

Was I upset? Of course—who wouldn't be? I stayed depressed for years, until around the time I turned fifteen, when I found my father's journals. It was by coincidence, but a life-changing one.

The journal was a black, velvet book with beige pages, filled with entries written in red ink until the very last page. Each page was full of my mother's pictures and memories of every moment he shared with her—from when they met to her death.

I read through the entries where he described how my mother first caught his eye in middle school. He couldn't resist taking pictures of her in high school, saying she looked too good to forget. He wanted to capture those memories in small, square photos within his journal.

The only thing stopping him from speaking to her directly was her own behavior. He wrote that she was like a "scared, stray cat with ruffled fur"—a line he ended with an exclamation mark. I couldn't picture his expression as he wrote that or fully grasp what he meant.

But soon, his writings made it clear. It turned out that my mother was so unusual that she ignited a curious admiration in him. He started noticing her more, despite her tendency to stay isolated and her normal appearance in a crowd.

No friends, yet she was kind and remembered by others. High grades, but no desire to pursue anything further. A pretty face, but she never did anything to enhance it. Deep down, he longed to see her make an effort, to see her true self shine. He wanted it all to be revealed before him in a way that made them both comfortable.

In the middle of the journal—which I had stolen from under his bed when Iris ordered me to clean their room as a light punishment—was the entry about the moment he gathered the courage to ask my mother out.

He wrote that when he approached her in their final year, carefully expressing his intentions, she reacted with utter disbelief. Her expressions and the gentle way she refused struck something deep in him. He loved this glimpse of her personality and wanted more.

For weeks, I lay in bed late at night, reading what he described as "the patient process." I nearly cried when I reached the long paragraph where he captured my mother through his eyes:

"Her hair is as dark as wood, but with beautiful warm brown undertones. Her eyes are so black, they feel like a void hiding her emotions and thoughts. Her skin flushes constantly, though she claims it's a condition—I dismiss this idea entirely. I've watched her for years, and she's never blushed like this before. I hope it's because of me.

I adore her smile, how her lips form it so genuinely when I tell her jokes. I'm glad she enjoys them; it took a lot to find out what makes her laugh.

She's the strangest person I've ever met. Sometimes I even feel a little uneasy about her odd habits, like talking to herself about recent problems as if she's negotiating with other people, or singing her words instead of just saying them. And when she sleeps next to me, she moves around like she's wrestling someone in her dreams.

But I never complained. I never will. None of it is a problem—it's a focused observation. Beyond those quirks lies something far more complex and intriguing. I'm in love with her. I want to marry her someday, when her parents agree to it."

And he did.

After that page, he wrote about how thankful he was to have her in his life. He built a cabin at the far end of Rights neighborhood, near the forest, so she could live happily and freely, as long as she was with him.