urasianwriter
"My goddess mother is embarrassed of me."
Evanthe grew up believing that meant her-believing something about her existence was a mistake that couldn't be undone, only hidden.
Archie Lowell raised her alone, a man of careful words and unwavering structure. He made sure Evanthe never lacked opportunity: tutors in languages she didn't ask for, instructors in etiquette, debate, history, music, and strategy. She was taught how to stand before she was taught how to relax, how to observe before she was allowed to speak. Praise was rare, but expectation was constant. Archie never pushed her toward affection-only excellence.
And Evanthe excelled.
She learns faster than she should. She notices patterns others miss. People instinctively listen when she speaks, even when her voice is soft. Authority seems to settle on her shoulders naturally, like something remembering where it belongs. Yet with every achievement, a quiet unease follows-as if she is fulfilling a role she was never told about.
Despite the grandeur of her upbringing, Evanthe feels unseen by the one person she longs to understand most. Somewhere out there is a mother who chose absence, and Evanthe has built her identity around that wound-polite, composed, self-reliant, and quietly aching to prove she was worth staying for.
She does not know that her mother is watching.
She does not know that the distance was not shame, but fear.
@urasianwriter @2025