Page 56 of Witchy Woman

I forgot how much Hazel resembles him.

Same auburn hair and facial structure. She has his nose and his brow.

A flare of jealousy rises in my gut. I wish so desperately that I had a piece of him of my own.

I snap the back of the frame, pulling the photo out and pocketing it.

The house creaks at me, nudging me along.

I trail my fingers through the dust as I look at every photo. So many of them are of Dad with one of us—either Mom, me, or Hazel. Only the one I took is of him alone.

The last photo is on Mom’s bedside table. And it has no dust.

Strange.

But there’s something there. A folded-up piece of paper right underneath the photo. I pull it gently, nerves skittering up my arm. I don’t know why but this feels...It feels important.

I open it up and see Mom’s handwriting. Her doctor-level chicken scratch that I always wanted to tease her for, but she couldn’t be bothered to even look at me most days.

She wasn’t like Grandma or Hazel, she didn’t understand that teasing is my way of showing love.

Hazel and Laura,

I’m so sorry. If you’re reading this, it’s because I banished both myself and Draven to Hell and I’m no longer here with you. You’re probably very confused, and that’s understandable. I haven’t been much of a mother to either of you, and I’ve left you with more questions than answers. Losing your father broke me in ways I never thought possible. I’ve never been able to fix it. Fix me.

My sacrifice will save Noah and will stop Hazel from feeling the brokenness that ruined everything I hold dear. I haven’t done much right, but I know that I can’t have one of you feeling this way.

And let’s be honest. I may have technically been alive all this time, but I stopped living a long time ago. The fact that I’ve been forced to continue on allthis time is going to mean something now, and that gives me peace.

I’m sorry.

Mom

My sniffles cutthrough the silence.

I don’t know if I’ll ever truly forgive her, but this? Knowing she had planned to do this to protect Hazel? Some of the wall I’ve constructed around my mother cracks.

Maybe she changed a little before she died. Maybe the person she is now can change.

I pocket the letter alongside the photo of Dad. It’s addressed to both Hazel and me but I don’t know if I’m ready to share it. I don’t know if she’s ready to see it.

She hates Mom so much, and a lot of that is justified. And the rift between her and me is so deep.

I just don’t know what I want to do yet.

Right next to the letter is a small box, no bigger than the palm of my hand. It’s an old thing, potentially passed down from Grandma. Or at the very least, found at an antique store.

The lid squeaks a little—just like the door—as I lift it. Sitting in the middle, on a plush bed of red velvet, is a compact. Small, with gold detailing in the shape of water droplets.

It looks custom made, something connected to her element and herself. It’s beautiful.

It’s something I would love to have learned how to make.

I open the latch and look back at my own face. Of course it’s a mirror, but that’s not what stops me. It’s how different I look.

Before Hazel left, I could point out all the places that were fake. All the many points of my face and body that I had spent hours crafting to attract the type of attention I wanted. Needed.The meticulous makeup, the fashionable outfits, the come-hither smirk and doe eyes.

This person? Despite how fucked up I still am, this person looks so much more authentically me. My hair is a sexed-up mess, my eyes are bright and alive—if not a little tear-filled—and my skin is clear and glowing.