~3~
My father died before I was born. Death isn’t something that is discussed often within our society, so my mother would never tell me how he died. My mom would always tell me fantastic stories about him and how I looked just like him.
“You have his hair,” she would say, “It was this same color; the color of the sun. You are also very brave and courageous, just like him. When I look at you I can see him. He is alive through you.”
This would make me very curious and, because I didn’t know better, I would ask, “Where is he?”
“He’s gone,” she would answer, all color draining from her face.
“Where did he go?”
She would point up and smile; her eyes twinkling in the light. Even when I was very little I can tell how beautiful my mom was. Almost every child thinks their mom is pretty, but I knew there was something extra special about mine.
“Did he go flying? Did he grow wings? That’s so cool!”
Then she would hug me, lay my head in her lap and stroke my hair until I fell asleep. I constantly asked my mom about my father, but the conversation never really got further than that. I began getting impatient and just stopped asking.
YOU ARE READING
Fallen
Teen FictionDetermined to avenge her mother's death and find out the story behind her father, Rose Daunt sets out on an exciting adventure. However, along the way she meets up with an unlikely ally who might be too good to be true.
