Especially after Tilda took Mom's place on the Council of Six. When Dorianna graduated college and returned to Garden Grove, Gwen Narrow conveniently retired from the Council.
Guess who was chosen as her replacement?
Dorianna.
A year after that, the Council picked her as its leader. At the age of twenty-three, Dorianna Miller was the youngest princeps pythonissam AKA Head Witch in the history of the Garden Grove coven. She spent the next three years remaking the coven in her image while also tormenting the Willowstones at every opportunity.
The key in the lock, my intent to go inside… I almost couldn't bear the thought of entering.
Standing at the door of Mom's bedroom felt surreal, as if I was standing between the inky threshold of the past and the present.
Step back, and I'd stay in safety. Step forward, and I risked falling into the darkness of forgotten heartache.
My sisters and I had been so haunted, so traumatized by what Mom had done we couldn't—wouldn't—admit that we missed her.
Delia Willowstone was flawed in so many ways. Selfish. Unreliable. Irresponsible. She was also charismatic. Fun. Joyful. Her mercurial moods were swift to change without notice.
Her love for her daughters was the faintest shadow against the brightness of her own desires. She denied herself nothing. But she wanted all the pleasures of life without the pain.
Mom had never learned from suffering. Never became stronger or better because of life's sorrows. She'd resented it. Seethed that it dared to encroach on her happiness.
Doug had hurt her.
An unforgivable act.
So she'd figured out a way to stop her agony and make him pay for causing it in the first place.
I blinked away the memories.
I looked down at the key and twisted it, flinching when I heard the tumblers click. My fingers trembled as they grasped the beveled glass knob.
Are you really doing this, Cassie?
I could chicken out. Walk away. Let sleeping ghosts lie.
No. I couldn't take the coward's way out. Besides, what was worse? Continuing life as it was? Or confronting the past head-on and dealing with it, painful memories and all?
I blew out a breath. I refused to let my mother control our futures any longer. Maybe we'd still be outcasts. Maybe going into Mom's bedroom would do nothing more than exacerbate our pain.
Or maybe clearing out Mom's space and ridding ourselves of her things would free us.
I didn't want to be caught anymore in the sticky web of my mother's past.
My stomach clenched with anxiety as I extracted the key and put it into my pocket.
As I pushed open the door, the hinges creaked in protest. The musty smell of disuse and dust invaded my nostrils. And within it, I detected the faint scent of my mother's homemade rose perfume.
I swallowed hard.
Then I stepped into the room.
Mom's ornate cherry wood four-poster bed dominated the space. The thick purple comforter and lavender silk sheets were thrown back as if she'd just awakened and gotten up.
Purple-shaded brass lamps sat on the nightstands. The right nightstand held a teacup, a paperback with a folded paper sticking out of it, and Mom's favorite pair of amethyst drop earrings.
My gaze traveled right to the window seat filled with pillows and hand-bound books written by the Willowstone ancestors.
I remembered Mom sitting there, cross-legged, browsing through the books compiled by our forebears. When I was younger—when I had two parents—Mom and Dad would teach me spells from those books.
After my father died, Mom closed herself off to us. It was as if her heart had been ripped out, leaving nothing for her daughters.
I don't think Dad's death changed her. I think she reverted to who she'd been before they met and fell in love.
Dad grounded her. His steadiness, kindness, and patience equaled the taunt string of a balloon. And Mom was the balloon. She could bobble and bounce and dance, but she stayed tethered to the world, to her family, through the love of my father.
My heart ached.
I felt a sob build, tightening my chest. I closed my eyes and inhaled deeply until the grief swirled away.
I opened my eyes and steadied my resolve.
To the left of the bed was the dresser. I noted the jewelry box, the pile of scarves, the perfume bottles, and the scattered change.
The bottom drawers were slightly opened, adding to the impression that Mom had only minutes ago thrown on some clothes and headed downstairs.
Most mornings she'd go straight to the gardens to care for the plants, culling herbs and flowers. She liked the solace and peace she found there. She liked it a lot more than the chaos created by her daughters.
I would wake up the twins, get them ready for school, cook them breakfast, and walk them to the bus stop.
On a rare morning, however, Mom would be in the kitchen whipping up pancakes with edible flowers and telling the twins outrageous stories about our family. Like the time our Great Great Great Aunt Mary turned her cheating husband into a toad and cooked him in a soup.
And that's why Willowstone witches won't eat toad soup, she'd say with a dimpled smile as she put plates of fluffy flower-infused pancakes onto the table. Now, who wants extra syrup?
The memory opened up a pit in my stomach. I was so furious with my mother. Angry that she couldn't be the parent we needed. Ashamed that she allowed her pettiness and selfishness take two lives. Devastated that her daughters weren't enough of a reason for her to let go of Doug and live. For us.
The other emotions fell away until all that was left was my rage. I wanted to throw things, stomp my feet, and scream. But, no… As much as I wanted an outlet for my fury, I wouldn't give in to childish behavior.
I was not my mother.
And the people in this town were going to learn that once and for all.
"I'm done with you, Mom," I yelled, spinning around the room. "You are not welcome in this house anymore!"