A/N: Hello readers, I'd like to formally introduce my first OC baby... be kind to her, love her as her mother does, as she is central to this fic's themes.
Chapter 1: Picture Imperfect
There is a picture that Nadia's mother keeps in the livingroom. It sits on top of the mantelpiece of the rarely lit fireplace, framed by dull green painted wood with a thin layer of dust that her mother wipes off only once a year. Two faces are frozen in that picture, a woman Nadia does not know and a boy so average she could spot at least five look-a-likes on campus. Yet, she knows he is not an average boy, and that the woman is not unimportant either.
Despite the strong bonds that she and her mother share, Nadia cannot bring herself to ask who these people are. Sometimes she catches her glancing at it with a kind of sorrow that her other mother, her original one, would have when she looked out the window, sometimes at the newspaper, or when watching TV. She sits in front of that fireplace that no one uses, and stares at that mossy green frame encasing two shadows. Only when she notices Nadia standing at the doorway does her face light up again, saying in her usual way, "Gem, what do you want to eat for dinner?"
But most of the time Nadia ignores this picture. Those are one of the sad things in her house, and the sad things are always overcome by laughter, many hugs, daily reminders that the other is loved. She forgets this picture exists, and the only time she remembers that it is in the house is when she catches her mother looking at it, but that is only as often as she cleans it: once a year.
Besides, there is no reason for her to be thinking about it now. Today is her mother's birthday. They don't have big plans today; they both like to celebrate privately, just the two of them. She holds a box of pastries and another containing a small cake from Porto's Bakery, a favorite that they both share, and walks home with a friend (her mother insists that she always has someone to walk with her - she watches the news far too much, Nadia thinks, but there is ground in her worries).
"Yellow punch buggy, no punch backs," her friend says, prodding her on the arm with a playful fist, but before Nadia can return the light blow anyway, a brief glance at the car and who is inside as it drives past her renders her unresponsive. There is no reason for her to be thinking of the picture on the mantelpiece except that she suspects that there is no longer a frame that bounds them.
Nadia is reading East of Eden for English on the couch when her mother finally gets home. The front door closes and heels clack in her direction before she sets down the book to greet her mother with a kiss on the cheek.
"Buenos tardes," her mother attempts with an imperfect accent.
"Buenas. I'll let this one go cause it's your birthday," Nadia says with feigned seriousness, and her mother laughs. "I bought Porto's."
"And I bought lasagna. I would've made it myself but I deserve a break, don't you think?"
They set up the dining table with the cake in the center. It is layered with thin slices of apples, peaches, and strawberries, topped with a chocolate plate reading: "Happy Birthday, mom!"
Nadia sticks the candle in (a plain one, as her mother detests age-specific celebratory wax), and her mother lights it with a match.
"What will you wish for this time?"
"You ask me every year but you know things won't come true if I tell you," she teases, even though she doesn't believe in any of that. "I wish what I always wish for. For our happiness."
She blows out the candle, and gray silk that forms in the air is gratifying.
"Let's get started, I know you're hungry."
Nadia opens the box of pastries first and then remembers what she had seen that afternoon. "Mom, can I ask you something?"
"Of course," she replies, but a series of knocks on the door interrupt her inquiry. "Huh. We're not expecting anyone, are we?"
Before Nadia can answer, the knob is turned and the white wood swings open. Her mother always forgets that their door has a peephole, and that sometimes it is best to use it, because the silence that follows when she sees who is in front of her is deadening.
There is no "good evening, how may I help you," or any politeness that usually comes with a stranger at the door, nor does she say a name in recognition. Nadia's mother just stands there, red lips open, those sad eyes returning. When Nadia walks up behind her, she sees them. The woman and the boy.
"Regina," the woman says. It is all she says.