Mother’s Concern

“There’s nothing more exhausting than trying to appear fine in a kitchen built for concern.”

The futile search for the missing Portal Key had left me hollow. Not just tired, but drained, as though someone had pulled a plug deep inside me and let everything worth holding onto trickle away. Now I sat slouched on the barstool at my parents’ kitchen bench, elbows propped and posture slumped, the familiar ache of defeat settling somewhere between my shoulders.

My hands were wrapped lovingly around the cool glass of a half-empty bottle of wine—my reluctant but dependable companion for the past half hour. A small comfort, yes, but comfort nonetheless. Beside me sat the cup of coffee they’d offered, untouched and growing colder by the second. I stared at it for a long moment, its surface dulled, the steam long since vanished. Just another thing left to cool in my wake.

"Abbey dropped by earlier," said Mum, breaking the silence that had stretched on between us like a thread on the verge of snapping. Her eyes stayed on me, narrowed slightly—not accusing, not yet, but watching. Measuring. A mother’s intuition, honed by years of trying to decipher me.

I glanced up at her, silently asking her to go on.

"She's concerned about you. Said that you haven't been returning any of her calls."

My brow creased. That didn’t sound right. Abbey? I didn’t remember ignoring any of her calls—though the last few days had blurred together into something jagged and surreal. I hadn’t seen or heard from her since that day—the day everything unravelled. The Guardians. The strange, silent converging of people who seemed to know more than they should. My house had felt like a pressure chamber.

Now it was a ruin.

I didn’t answer her. Instead, I gave in, letting the wine speak for me. "Can you grab some glasses, please?" I asked, my voice low and weary. It wasn’t so much a request as a white flag. I didn’t want to argue, or explain. I just wanted a pause.

The sound of the bottle cap unscrewing echoed sharply against the kitchen tiles. A faint hiss followed, like the bottle itself exhaled in anticipation.

Mum glared at Dad—not subtle, not silent, her disapproval practically radiating off her. But he moved anyway, retrieving two glasses from the cupboard and setting them down gently on the bench in front of me. No words, just that small act of quiet loyalty. It was his way of saying: I see you, even if I don’t understand.

The rich scent of the wine wafted up immediately—dark berries and something earthy, almost smoky. It was ridiculous how comforting that aroma had become. Like muscle memory for misery.

"Why haven't you been at work lately?" Mum asked, and the spell snapped. Her voice carried that pointed tone she used when she was trying not to sound like she was lecturing, but absolutely was.

My body tensed, my grip tightening on the bottle. I frowned at her, unable to suppress the flicker of irritation rising beneath my skin. How, exactly, was I meant to explain everything? How could I begin to unravel the complexity of my life when I barely understood it myself?

"Talk to us, Gladys, please," she said, softer now, but more desperate. Her hand reached for the bottom of the bottle, fingers wrapping around the glass, trying to pull it away from me. Not violently, but insistently. Like she could physically drag me back into reality.

I held on, but she was stronger. The bottle slipped from my grasp, leaving my hand embarrassingly empty.

"I got fired!" I snapped, the words erupting before I could temper them. They landed in the kitchen like a brick through glass. I snatched the bottle back, clutching it like a lifeline, as if having something—anything—in my hands could make up for the rest of it slipping away.

A heavy sigh came from my father as he leaned against the sink, the sound full of disappointment but devoid of judgement. That made it worse, somehow.

"Gladys, you need to stop this!" Mum said sharply, yanking the bottle from me again, her grip like iron. Her tone stung more than I wanted it to. It wasn’t just about the wine. It was everything. The frustration, the helplessness, the fear she didn’t know how to voice.

I looked to my father, eyes silently begging him to step in—to soften the edges of my mother’s anger, to be the calm between us like he always was. But he didn’t move. He just stood there, watching. A man caught between two storms, unsure of which one he could survive.

His silence hit harder than her words.

In overwhelming frustration, I jumped from the stool. The wooden legs scraped harshly against the tiled floor, a sound as jagged and sharp as the knot tightening in my chest. Without thinking—without pausing—I snatched the wine bottle and stormed out of the kitchen. The walls felt too close, the air too thick. I needed space. Solitude. A moment where no one was asking me to explain or confess or be anything other than done.

"Where are you going?" Mum called after me, her voice tight with concern, trailing close behind.

"I'm going upstairs to wait for Beatrix to come home," I replied, not slowing, not turning. My voice echoed slightly against the hallway walls. I knew full well it was a flimsy excuse. A reach. But at that moment, I would've grasped at mist if it meant getting away.

"We haven’t seen your sister for several days," Mum said, stopping in the doorway behind me. Her voice had changed—softer, more laden. Like a held breath.

I stopped.

Just like that, my steps froze halfway up the staircase. I stood there, wine bottle hanging by my side, my knuckles white around the neck of it. My mind flicked backwards, unspooling memories like film slipping loose from a reel.

Come to think of it... I haven’t seen Beatrix either. Not since the car chase—God, that ridiculous, reckless mess of a day. The scene played out clearly in my mind: the adrenaline, the blurred trees, her hands gripping the wheel like she was in a spy film. And then her voice, laughing as she’d told me Paul had her doing missions. Her eyes had shone. She’d looked alive. Buzzing. Like she’d finally found something worth doing.

A reluctant smile tugged at the corners of my mouth. For a moment, I let it stay.

But then it faded.

After what happened with Cody...

The weight of that memory pressed in hard. I knew, too well now, that Guardian work wasn’t some adventurous side gig. It was dangerous. Sometimes fatal. That brightness in Beatrix’s eyes could be snuffed out in a second if she got caught in the wrong place, with the wrong people. And I hadn’t heard from her. Not a whisper.

But Luke would tell me if something had happened. He would. Wouldn't he?

The thought felt like both a comfort and a warning. A tether and a threadbare prayer.

I turned slightly on the stairs but didn’t look back. I reminded myself—pointedly—that I was still annoyed with Mum. That this emotional spiral was mine alone. She didn’t need to know. Not yet.

"She's close," I said flatly. It was nothing more than a vague reassurance. A lie, maybe. But one that soothed, even if just for a second.

I pushed open Beatrix’s bedroom door with care, the brass handle cool beneath my palm. The room greeted me with stillness. Dim light filtered through the blinds, slanting in quiet stripes across the floorboards. There she was—Snowflake—curled up neatly in the centre of the bed like a living cushion. Her fur rose and fell with each contented breath.

I softened instantly.

Closing the door behind me with a gentle click, I placed the bottle down on the dresser. Snowflake didn’t even lift her head as I slipped into the bed beside her, her ears giving a slight twitch in acknowledgment. I lay there carefully, curling my body around her warmth.

“At least you’re safe and comfortable,” I whispered, pressing my cheek to the top of her silken head. Her purring began softly, like a small engine beneath my hand.

The simplicity of her presence—the unbothered rhythm of her tiny life—offered something I hadn’t felt in days. A sliver of calm. A breath in the storm.

I closed my eyes. Just for a moment. Just long enough to feel what it might be like to stop running.