She thought she loved him.
He had eyes that shone like stars and a smile that could light up the sky. He had long hair the color of midnight and a strong, jutting chin. When he laughed, it shook his entire body, eyes crinkling in the corners. His voice was deep, raspy, and rumbled like the rolling thunder. He was gentle hands and sturdy torso and soft lips. He was cigarette smoke and tobacco. He was sunsets and storms and the summer breeze.
She was not. When she met him, she was but a girl working in her father's architect studio, learning the trade. Her hands were calloused from working metal and wood and her blossoming womanhood was covered by baggy shirts and long pants. Her long hair that fell about her shoulders in thick curls was always tied atop her head to prevent it from disturbing her when she worked. She constantly smelled of stone and sweat and the smoke that her father always breathed when he worked.
He had entered her father's shop asking for blueprints for a house he wanted to build on the outskirts of town. He was bright and funny and lit his father's cigarette when he pulled out his own. The two chatted longer than Rebecca knew was necessary for patron and server. The man would glance over at her sometimes and ask her opinion and she'd give it confidently. Rebecca was usually never impressed by the men who came by her father's shop and stared at her lecherously as though they could see through the unflattering clothes she preferred to wear in the workshop.
But he impressed her. As she waited for Father to grab the blueprints that he needed, he chatted with her about stone working and architecture. He showed her his hands that were cut and calloused from working long days in construction. He laughed freely and told her stories about his life of travel. He looked her straight in the eye and never once strayed to the chest that she covered with formless shirts or the hips she hid with men's pants.
She asked his name.
"Richard," he replied. "What's yours, Sugar?"
She arched an eyebrow at the nickname, but replied. "Rebecca."
"I like that name," he said. Then, he grinned at her and she surprised herself when she found that she very much liked his smile. His cigarette hung from his lips as he blew smoke into her face. Suddenly, Rebecca felt very conscious of her messy, frizzy hair and the clothes falling loose over her figure.
It was then that her father entered the room, holding the appropriate blueprints. Richard paid for them, then turned to leave the shop.
He was almost out the door when he turned back around to look directly at her, that grin still on his face. "See you around, Sugar."
He visited the shop every day with the excuse that he needed to gather materials. When he stopped by the studio and saw that Rebecca was working the counter, he'd buy the materials he needed, and then they'd have a long conversation before he left to finish his work. Rebecca didn't mind; she enjoyed his company.
On the fifth day he stopped by to get more materials, she frowned at the bag of material stone she had handed him over the counter. "Do you really need this many for the house you're building?"
Richard shrugged. "Not really."
She furrowed her brow at him. "Then, why do you keep coming here?"
His bright grin stretched across his face. "I thought it was pretty obvious that I'm here for you, Sugar."
At that, Rebecca blushed deeply and turned away. "Idiot," she said, trying to squash the smile threatening to curl her lips.
But his calloused fingers reached over the counter to grasp her chin and turn her head gently toward him. He smirked when he saw her indignant scowl. His gaze flicked from her eyes, down to her lips, and back. "You bet I'm an idiot," he whispered to her.
His breath smelled of cigarettes and his fingers were calloused and she could hardly call this romantic, but she could not stop her heart beating rapidly in her chest. Her cheeks burned hotter and she immediately pulled away. "Get out of here, already," she said, trying to glare at him.
He laughed and the sound made her a little weak in the knees. "I'll be back same time tomorrow," he paused before adding, "Rebecca."
She couldn't lie to herself. She loved the way her name sounded upon his lips.
They spent more time together, both at the shop when business was slow and outside where they'd walk the worn paths around the town or the nearby forest. Her father, to whom she was usually so obedient, didn't mind the increased amount of time they were together. He liked Richard, as far as Rebecca could tell, and seemed to enjoy his company whenever he stopped by the shop to visit her. They'd spend their days together whenever Rebecca did not have duties at the studio and when they could not spend days, even though she knew her father would not approve, they'd spend nights. Feeling guilty, she'd sneak through the window of her room. The guilt, however, would fly away as soon as she found herself in his arms. Then, before dawn would break, she'd be back in her room as though she had never left.
She could not deny the way he made her feel. Like she was beautiful and desired. The way his smile made her weak in the knees or how she'd melt when he laughed. The burn across her cheeks when his gaze slowly, deliberately traveled up and down her body. She was used to perverted men visiting the shop who would look at her this way, like they could see past her baggy clothes to the curves of her youthful woman's body, the swell of her breasts, the soft lines of her hips, but she didn't mind his wandering gaze. She reveled in it. She opened her arms to him and allowed him to sink into her, permitting him access to places she never knew existed.
His fingers would trace patterns across her skin that made her toes curl. He'd trail scorching kisses down her neck that left her breathless and wanting. She'd run her hand through strands of long, dark hair as he kissed her consciousness away. She began to wear skirts so that it would be easier for his hands to travel up her thighs. And the first time he had loosened the binding in her hair, he had kissed her long tresses and murmured his appreciation. She kept her hair down ever since.
Her father noticed the changes, but did not say anything. She continued her hard work in the studio, calloused hands working the materials of her trade, her pencils tracing out the lines of structures and buildings. The only difference was the slow, yet progressive embrace of femininity. Her father never asked and she never answered. She loved her father, but knew that she could never tell him the moments beneath the moonlight that she spent with Richard, the man who guided her through experiences she had never cared for mere months before. Now, because of him, her whole body burned for it, desire consuming her throughout the day until he released her from the tension at night.
She shared her body and he shared his cigarettes. She gave him pleasure and he'd sigh her name in response.
She thought she loved him.
Her father sat next to her as she lay in the uncomfortable bed at the clinic. Earlier that day, she had collapsed while at the studio and her father had frantically carried her to the clinic in panic. She woke up to the angry, desperate voice of her father demanding to know the truth of her illness, but the doctor had refused to say anything until Rebecca woke up. At the sound of her stirring, the doctor had shushed her father and he asked her kindly, "How are you feeling?"
Rebecca blinked wearily and sat up. "A little exhausted, but okay."
"Rebecca, what happened to you?" her father immediately asked. He sat on the bed, the mattress sinking under their combined weight. He took her hand, deeply concerned. "You've never fainted before in your life."
But she was just as confused. "I don't know. I was working and then I began to feel dizzy…" she frowned. "Next thing I know I'm here."
Her father turned to the doctor. "Doctor, please. Now, can you tell us what happened?"
The doctor frowned, glancing from father to daughter and back. He sighed, pulling off his glasses to clean it on his shirt. He put them back on his face and, with a very straight face began to explain.
Moments later, the doctor left the two alone. They sat there in stricken silence for a minute before Rebecca was able to gather the courage to turn her gaze toward her father. Her father had always been the picture of strength. Ever since she was a child, she'd watch with fascination at how he'd carry all those heavy materials over his strong shoulders without seeming to get tired. She'd smile in delight, as she sat upon his knee while he drew up blueprints of beautiful, sturdy buildings. She'd ask him enthusiastically about the designs of his buildings, while his practiced hand drew straight lines and delicate curves.
But now, his form, usually so straight and proper, was hunched over. His eyes, always so bright and filled with laughter, were clouded. His lips, normally curved upward in a smile, were pressed into a thin, straight line. He looked old, Rebecca realized with wonder. He never looked old before, but now it looked like he had aged fifteen years in only fifteen minutes.
"Father," Rebecca tried tentatively. "I—"
The sound of her voice animated him and he sighed. "Not now, Rebecca," he said, his voice heavy.
"But—"
"I said, not now!" he snapped at her. Rebecca immediately shut up, her eyes widening. He had never snapped at her before.
He stood up, suddenly, causing Rebecca to jump up a little in surprise. His jaw was clenched, his shoulders tightened. He did not look at her when he said, "Let's go home."
They didn't say a word as they walked home. Rebecca hated it. She had always been able to talk to her father, sharing jokes with him from across the studio, listening to his gentle instruction in the workshop. To her, his kindness was constant and gentle and always, like the gentle scenery of a sunrise. But now he was storms and clouds and thunder, a stark contrast to the man she had grown up watching, the father she had grown up loving. It had always been the two of them, just the two of them.
The silence was deafening.
When they got home, her father still refused to talk to her, opting instead to disappear into the studio. From outside, Rebecca yearned to follow him in. But she did not, and instead walked away from the studio and into their home.
When the sun was beginning to set a few hours later, she stepped out to check on the studio, but backed away when she felt her courage fade. After making dinner, she tried to approach her father again, carrying the cooked dish in her hands as she walked to the studio. She paused in front of the closed doors. No sound could be heard. She gripped the dish in her hands, gathered her courage, and pushed the doors open.
The bell above the door jingled to signal her entrance, but she did not hear a single movement. Shadows danced along the walls of the shop from the setting sun. No one would have known that there was anyone in there if not for the light that peaked from behind the curtains separating the shop entrance from their workspace.
"F-father?" she called.
No response.
She walked quietly behind the counter and pushed the curtains aside. There he was. He was sitting hunched in front of the model he had been working on since last month, a project given to him by the city. Usually, he would be flitting all around the model, adjusting and readjusting the pieces, adding details or taking them away. And when it seemed like he was about to throw his hands in frustration at the lack of progress, he'd turn to her with a bright smile and ask her opinion. But he wasn't like that now. He was still and silent and lifeless, so unlike the man Rebecca was used to seeing. She frowned at the sight.
"Father?" she called again. "I made dinner."
He did not respond.
She bit her lip, hesitating, before deciding to step forward, trying to force a smile and a cheerful tone. She held out the dish. "It's our favorite, Seafood Omelet Rice!"
"Do not pretend to be so optimistic," her father said, his voice uncharacteristically hard.
Rebecca flinched. She gripped the edges of the plate, trying to will herself to stop shaking.
He turned toward her and Rebecca felt a lump form in her throat at his face. His eyes were red as though he had been crying. Father never cried.
"Do you realize what you have done?" he asked her.
She didn't reply. She couldn't.
"You betrayed me."
Immediately, tears formed in her eyes. "Father, I—"
"I knew. I knew you were messing around with that…that boy." Despite herself, Rebecca bristled at her father's treatment of Richard and opened her mouth to protest, but he continued. "But I wanted to believe that I had raised you to know what was right from wrong, to know what lines you should not cross."
He closed his eyes as his voice broke. "I wanted to believe in you, Rebecca."
She stepped forward, unable to take it. Her arms were shaking, not from the weight of the Omelet Rice in her hands, but something else. "Father, please—"
He ignored her. "I wanted you to become a respected architect. The way you seemed to shine while you work, you were always more talented than I had ever been. All of our patrons always compliment your work, some of them even preferring yours over mine!" He laughed bitterly. "I never minded. I was always so proud of you."
He turned away from her and stared at the model in front of him. His voice was emotionless, flat. "I thought I was raising a talented, passionate architect, but instead I was raising a whore."
Behind him, where he could not see her, Rebecca dropped the plate holding their dinner as it shattered into pieces on the floor, the warm food steaming and inedible. The room darkened as the sun set and the bell above the door jingled violently.
Rebecca ran. She ran as hard as she could. She didn't stop until she got to the house on the outskirts of town she helped her father design. She knocked furiously on the door, panting from the exertion, and didn't stop until an irritated voice answered. "What the hell is—" he stopped and stared at her. "Rebecca?"
In a single moment, he took in her long hair, plastered against her skin from sweat. Her shoulders moved up and down rapidly as if she was about to hyperventilate. Her eyes were red, wet, and wide in panic. He had less than a few seconds to take her in before she launched herself at him.
Her hands clutched at his shirt, sobbing and panting and in a complete mess. His arms instinctively made its way around her. "Hey," he tried to soothe her. "Shhh, it's alright."
But she shook her head before burying herself further into him. "No, it's not alright," she sobbed against him. "It's not!"
His hand came to cradle her head against his chest. "What's wrong, Sugar? Tell me."
She tried to control her sobs before telling him. "I'm pregnant."
Immediately, his whole body stiffened. "What?"
She sniffed before pulling away from his embrace to wipe at her cheeks. "I'm pregnant," she said again.
He said nothing and she lifted her eyes to look at him. "Richard?" she said, but stopped. That night, the dark eyes that she had always marveled at for being so clear, were not clear at all. Instead, they were glassy, hazy, distant. And that's when she realized it. She was young, but she was not stupid.
"You're going to leave, aren't you?" she said quietly, disbelieving. She wanted him to say no. She wanted him to say…
But he didn't say anything. He just turned his glassy eyes toward her, face blank. His jaw remained set. He did not break into the usual smile that made her go weak. He did not burst into laughter. He remained very straight and very serious. Their eyes met but he looked like he wasn't really seeing her. Like he was looking past her to the horizon that stretched beyond the hills, the road that passed by his house. Anger flared in her abdomen, distracting from the crushing feeling in her chest.
She clenched her fists, shaking in rage. "You coward," she enunciated. "You fucking coward!"
He did not respond. He just turned away from her, calmly.
"You make me fall in love with you, you put a baby in me, and then you're just going to leave?" she shrieked at him as he retreated into the house. She followed him, her eyes alight in fury. "How dare you? How dare you?"
At her inquiries, he turned his head slightly toward her, speaking at her over his shoulder. "Get out of my house," he said simply.
Her reaction was instinctive. Curling her hands into fists, she punched him right on the cheek he had turned toward her. Then grabbed his shirt to make him face her. She punched him again in the jaw. Then again, making sure to aim at and break his nose. By her third punch, he was on the ground, clutching at his face. Inwardly, she thanked the countless hours of working and forming materials as her father had taught her and for the strength it had granted her. She leaned forward toward him, daring him to catch her eye. He didn't. She hissed at him, "You better get far away from this town. Because if I ever see you again, it won't just be your nose I break."
She turned and stomped away, slamming the door shut behind her.
She stood in front of his door for a minute, maybe three, before she let out a strangled cry and ran and ran and ran until she was out of the village, surrounded by trees where she knew no one could see. Collapsing next to a large one with its roots protruding from the ground to surround her and keep her hidden, she clutched at her head and let out a scream.
He didn't love her. She loved him with everything and he didn't even look at her, even when she pummeled him. Her mind thought back to the moments they shared with each other. The day she decided to wear a skirt for him. The moment she decided to let her hair down for him. His whispered promises in her ear. His fingers on her cheek. His smile, his eyes, his laugh. She remembered the nights she disobeyed her father. The nights she snuck out of her window. The nights she'd run giddily into his arms where he…where she let him—
Her whole body froze as she her eyes widened in realization. Her father was right.
"I'm a whore," she cried desperately. "I'm a whore. I'm a whore."
She pounded into the ground, repeating those words over and over until it was an endless litany reverberating in her brain. She repeated them until her throat burned with the effort it took to push past the sobs. She screamed it at herself, a challenge, an insult. An accusation. A reminder that she had given him everything: her body, her innocence, her love—and he left her with nothing. Nothing but a baby in her womb.
She wasn't sure how long she stayed there, leaning against the sturdy trunk of the tree she collapsed next to. She wasn't sure how long she sat in the dirt, looking at the night sky with blurry eyes, watching her whole life slip from her fingers.
It wasn't until the moon was high in the sky and the chill penetrated through her consciousness that she decided to go home. She stumbled as she walked. She was exhausted and numb, feeling like she'd shatter at any moment. She did not bother to wipe her tears away from her eyes. She did not bother to fix her messy hair or her dirtied skirt. The skirt she wore for—
She couldn't think about it so she didn't. She continued walking home, tripping over rocks on the road, and tried to put one foot in front of the other.
When she finally got home, the light in the studio was still on, meaning her father was still there, but she didn't face him; she couldn't face him. In contrast, the house was dark and empty, quiet and still in ways that it never should be. The silence suffocated her. She went to her room, where she collapsed onto the bed.
She placed a hand on her stomach and couldn't fall asleep.
The next day, she woke up to the sting of the sun shining directly on her face through the gap in the curtains she was never able to fully close. She turned her face away to stare at the wall. The clock at her bedside ticked away. She placed a hand on her stomach in the same way she had multiple times throughout the night.
The house was silent and she was alone.
She didn't know how long she lay there until she decided to lift herself out of the bed. The action of lifting her body took effort she did not think she had, until she found herself standing upon shaky legs. She walked to the mirror in her room and stared at her disheveled state. She looked worse than she imagined. Her thick curly framed her head like a frizzy afro. Her shirt was stained with dirt. Her skirt that so provocatively hugged her curves lay wrinkled upon her hipbones. It did nothing to hide the legs she had so perversely wanted Richard to see, to appreciate, to touch—.
Tears pricked at her eyes as she stared at herself. He was gone. Gone. She had broken his nose and now he will never come back. What was the point of these clothes now? Without his eyes to gaze at her appreciatively, without his hands to trace ecstasy across her skin, why had she wanted to look so beautiful? What was she trying to prove?
Rebecca took a shaky breath in. Out. And again twice more. She grabbed her brush and combed out the tangles in her hair. She changed out of her clothes and put clean ones on. She washed her face and brushed her teeth. Her normal daily routine anchored her, though she felt a storm brewing inside her.
She decided to head out into the kitchen. She didn't know what she was expecting to see when she stepped out, but she was not expecting to see a plate covered by paper towels and a note with her name written on it neat letters. Her father's handwriting.
Her hand shook as she uncovered the plate. Omelet Rice; her favorite. She took the letter and read it, then crushed it in her hand from gripping so hard. She hadn't wanted to cry, but…but…!
She found her father in the studio—their studio—and immediately thrust the paper in his face, staring at him almost accusingly, her face twisted in pain.
"Father," she started, unable to raise her voice above a whisper, "why…?"
Her father whispered her name and stepped toward her, his arms opening a little. He looked like he was about to say something, but Rebecca interrupted him.
"Why are you apologizing!" she cried desperately. She shoved the paper to his chest and held it there, bowing her head in shame. "You were right! You were completely right! I…I messed up! I was the one who slept around with him, even though I knew it was wrong. I gave him everything and he…he…!" she clenched her eyes shut as she balled her fists against his chest. "You weren't wrong, Father. I'm no better than a wh—"
"No!" he said vehemently. Rebecca snapped her head up in surprise. His usually calm eyes were alight in near fury and agony like his heart was shattering. "Don't, Rebecca," he continued. His voice broke. "Don't you dare say it."
She opened her mouth to protest, but he cupped her face gently in his hands and forced her to look at him. "I can't lie to you; I am angry. At him and…at you."
And she could see it. She saw anger flaring in his gaze, his clenched jaw, his trembling hands. But she also saw pain like she had never seen before in his expression.
"I am angry," he repeated definitively and Rebecca would have flinched at the hardness of his voice if not for her face still held firmly in his hands. "But more than that, I am heartbroken."
His hands fell away from her face as he stepped away from her, looking old and tired. "Did you never think of me? Of what I would think? Of how I would react if I'd known you were fooling around with him? Didn't I matter to you, Rebecca?" Each word was like a knife in her chest. She had thought of him. But she didn't care. She was so in love, she couldn't see anything else.
She bowed her head and cried silently. She couldn't answer him, because she didn't know herself. She couldn't explain why she was so taken with him, why she had loved him so much. Did she love Richard more than her father? Was that what it was?
Her father shook his head. "But that's not what matters now. No matter how emotional I was last night, I had no right to call you a…" his voice broke before he took a breath to steady himself and keep going. "I should not have called you that."
He took her hands in his and the gesture was so gentle, Rebecca couldn't help but look back up at him. "Could you forgive me, my daughter?"
She shook her head vigorously. "But you weren't wrong! Because he…I…!"
"But you loved him, didn't you?"
Rebecca froze, unable to understand what he was saying.
He sighed. "You may not have known that what you felt for him was not love, but somewhere inside, you believed you did." He cracked the smallest smile at her. "I may be an old man, but you are still my daughter. I know you better than anyone else."
Her chin trembled and she nodded her head. "Yeah," was all she could manage.
At that, her father pulled her toward him and wrapped his arms around her like a cocoon.
They stood there like that until Rebecca's sobs had slowed down. She pulled away from him, wiping her eyes on her sleeves, feeling miserable, but alive, now that she knew her father was still on her side.
"Have you told him?" her father asked after a silence. "I know that's where you ran off to yesterday," he added.
Immediately, her expression went dark. She nodded in response.
"And?" he prompted.
"He's gone," she said simply, turning away slightly. Humiliation and rage flared in her abdomen.
"What?"
"He's gone. He's probably not there anymore. I beat him up and told him to leave."
"Rebecca—"
"He was going to leave anyway!" she protested immediately. Tears were prickling in her eyes again. And she hated it. She didn't want to cry anymore. She stamped away her sorrow with a determined glare as she looked at her father. "He was a coward. As soon as I told him, he was already packing up. So, I decided I didn't need him."
Her father sighed. "It won't be easy raising a child without its father."
"But it's not like I'm going to be alone," she said. "I'll have you, right?"
The smile he gave her was gentle and slow and Rebecca couldn't help but think maybe that was all she needed.
She heard the whispers as her stomach grew and grew.
In the weeks following Richard's exit from town, neither she nor her father told anyone about the life growing inside her. However, as time passed, the bulge of her abdomen became harder and harder to hide. As the signs of her pregnancy became more obvious, so did the rumors. And as her stomach grew so did the viciousness of the gossip.
Rebecca had never been particularly close with anyone in the village except her father. The empty house in the outskirts of town and the poisonous whispers slandering her dignity was enough reason to hate the town. But it was here that the business her father had worked so hard to build reached its success. For years, he had built it up from scratch, with a child in his arms and a wife six feet under. He had plowed forward with nothing more than his own passion and hard work.
When Rebecca joined him in the studio, the two of them built the business from the ground up, signing up with contractors, negotiating with raw material dealers. They had earned every single penny they lived off of through their own sweat and determination. The reputation her father built with her was centered in this town.
But from the moment her stomach had grown so big it was too hard to hide, the villagers' true nature surfaced. She was walking through the market, buying her daily groceries when she heard them buzzing in her ears like irritating fruit flies.
"I heard she had seduced a poor man, made him fall in love with her, then dumped him when he no longer satisfied her."
"What?! No way! That can't be true."
"It is! Apparently, the man was so heartbroken that he ran away from the village and never came back. When she found out she was pregnant, it was too late to call him back. He was long gone."
"Well, serves her right, if she ever did that to him."
"I just feel bad for her poor father."
"I know. He's always so kind. Who knew he had raised such a—"
She ignored the rumors, walking away from them with conviction. What did they know? Nothing, that's what. They didn't know anything.
When she got home, she took the groceries into the kitchen and started cooking, her mood souring. When she was done, she carried the food to the studio where she knew her father would be waiting.
"Father, I made lunch," she said as the door jingled closed behind her.
He peeked out from behind the curtain and was about to greet her when he saw the dark look on her face. He frowned. "Were you confronted by someone?"
Rebecca shook her head, sighing. "No, just rumors. I swear they're getting worse by the day."
He held the curtain open for her to walk through before replying. "I'm sorry you have to go through this. This is in no way fair to you." He paused before starting, "And that includes what I said to you—"
Rebecca put down the tray of food at an unoccupied table before turning to her father to interrupt him. "Father, you've already apologized about that day. Multiple times, actually. I forgave you a long time ago."
His brow furrowed in guilt. "But I called you a…" he couldn't finish, shaking his head and sighing. He looked her straight in the eye and said with conviction. "You are not, Rebecca. You are my daughter and you have braved this difficulty with grace and fortitude." His face softened to a warm smile. "I couldn't be more proud."
Tears stung at her eyes before she tried to cover it up with a laugh. "I learned from the best."
When they sat down to eat, he asked her, "You went to the doctor a few days ago. What did he say?"
"Yeah, he said that I could go into labor any time now." She sighed, patting the large bulge of her abdomen absentmindedly. "Honestly, I'm a little nervous."
Her father patted her hand. "It'll be alright. You're strong, after all. You'll find a way." They ate the rest of their dinner in silence.
The next morning, she rummaged into her closet for the shirt she had bought with some girlfriends as a joke long ago and put it on, knowing exactly what her nosy neighbors were going to say.
She strut into the market for her daily groceries, her long, green skirt swaying as she walked. Rebecca smirked at the hushed voices surrounding her as she meandered along the vegetable aisles, her enlarged stomach bare and beautiful and on display for all to see. The rumors became ever more vicious, then, but Rebecca would only pat her swollen belly in response. Sometimes, the fight is won by the mere selfish act of living through it.
She went into labor days earlier than expected. She was wheeled into the clinic, with her father by her side, every step of the way.
Hours later, the village doctor placed a newborn baby boy in her arms. She held the crying baby close to her heart. Tears streamed down her face when she saw his little body, his tiny hands grasping outward, unused to the space surrounding him. His eyes had not yet opened to greet the world. Words bubbled up from her stomach, then stopped at the base of her throat, repressed by the strange hiccupping sensation in her chest.
The child that came out of her womb began to whimper in her arms as she sobbed and sobbed.
As the boy grew, she was horrified to learn that he looked just like him. Those were his wide, dark eyes that peered at her from his cradle. Those were his lips. That was his jutting chin, his forehead, his pointed, thin nose. There they were; all the features she so intimately memorized during that year—that year she buried beneath layers and layers of vicious rumors and crippling guilt—were on display on the child she had spent three hours and twenty-two minutes bringing into this world.
She couldn't understand it. She was supposed to love this child. She was supposed to hold him in her arms and feel like the world made sense, the way her father did with her. She was supposed to feel the overwhelming warmth of motherhood, the way her mother had explained to her father.
But whenever she gazed at her child, the feeling that built up in her stomach and blossomed in her chest felt nothing like warmth. Instead, it was the icy claw of guilt that tore at her ribcage. When she looked at him, sleeping soundly in his crib, she did not think warmly, "her son"; rather, she burned with the scorching remnant of nine months of abandonment, nine months of mockery, nine months of humiliation. The baby that she brought into the world was the constant reminder of her stupidity, her failure. He was the permanent consequence of a fruitless passion, a flame that burned without kindling.
These thoughts and emotions horrified her at every moment. Why did she feel this way? She couldn't blame the child for her own stupid mistakes. She shouldn't condemn her baby for what that man did to her. Toni was the picture of innocence as he reached out his hands toward his mother, not even aware that he was asking for her embrace. But even as she cradled him against her chest, the searing stab of shame would cut through her like a knife and it would take all her willpower to keep her from dropping him.
He was a precious, beautiful, vulnerable thing; even she could recognize that. But when her son blinked his dark eyes at her, and wide, flitting orbs seeming to take in her whole face, all she could see was his eyes gazing at her, twinkling like the stars in the sky.
"Father," she came into the studio one day, heart shaking and body trembling harder. Toni was sleeping in the cradle they kept in her room and her whole body fidgeted at the thought. "I can't. I can't do this." Her voice broke. "He looks like… H-he looks just like—."
She tried to regain control of herself, tried to stem the flow of tears, tried to squash the ugly monster roaring in her chest. She was barely succeeding when she felt her father wrap his arms around her, pulling her into his embrace. "Come here, Rebecca."
Standing there, inside her father's strong embrace, she was tempted to feel like a little girl again. The little girl who trusted in her father's strength as certainly as she trusted in the sun to rise the next morning. The little girl who believed that all she needed was a soft kiss to her forehead and a good night's sleep and all the world's worries would be washed away when she woke up.
However, as she leaned against her father's shoulder, she couldn't help but notice how bony he felt. How thin his arms were; how frail his body seemed. Like if she squeezed her arms around him too hard, he'd shatter. This was not the father she grew up with; the father who effortlessly lifted her upon his knee to teach her architecture or the father who fought off monsters and chased away the dangers of the night.
The father who held her now was old and tired, just barely able to carry materials the short distance between their home to their workshop without taking a break. And she was not a little girl. She was a woman now. She was a woman, who had a son.
"I know it's hard," he said to her.
"It's not hard, Father. It's impossible." She pulled away from his hold and her heart ached for that familiar warmth, but she stamped it out with stubborn frustration. "Every time I look at Toni, I don't see my son, but him. Like he's mocking me; haunting me."
She squeezed her eyes shut in an attempt to keep the tears from flowing. "Father, all I want is to forget, but how can I forget when I'm reminded every single day of how stupid I was?"
"Child," he said to her gently, and Rebecca almost sighed at him, "you don't ever forget."
She opened her eyes and stared at him.
"The day you became pregnant, Rebecca, your whole life was changed. Don't fool yourself into thinking you can just forget."
She bit her lip and bowed her head in shame.
Her father placed a hand on her shoulder and it made her feel anchored in a way. Like it rooted her to the ground and kept her upright in a sea of storming emotions. "Your job now, my daughter," her father's soothing voice continued, "is not to forget, but to accept."
She couldn't help the sob that escaped her lips. "But I hate him, Father. It's horrible, but I hate him."
But he shook his head at her. He was the buoy to her storm. The beacon to her night. "You don't hate him. If you did, I would know. I've seen you when you actually hated people." He chuckled slightly at that before continuing. "No, Rebecca, you don't hate Toni. You hate what he represents to you. Your regrets, your guilt, your mistakes. Do you understand?"
Rebecca hesitated. "Then what do I do about the hatred I do feel? How do I keep myself from blaming Toni?"
"The same thing you do when you make a blunder in your blueprints," he replied.
She looked at him in confusion.
Her father smiled. "You keep moving forward."
"Mommy," Toni asked her with all the innocence in the world, "what's a slut?"
Rebecca immediately froze up and her cutlery fumbled in her hands. Her father frowned deeply at the young boy. Toni only looked sheepishly back, wondering if he did anything wrong.
"Toni," he demanded gently, "Where did you learn this word?"
"I was playing in Mrs. Haymer's garden and accidentally bumped into her tools. She got mad and told me that Mommy was a slut."
Rebecca glowered toward her plate, no longer feeling hungry. "Don't listen to her, Toni," she tried to say, though her mood was worsening by the second. "That old hag doesn't know anything."
Toni's eyes widened at his mother for her choice of words, while her father gave her a disapproving glance. Her anger wilted slightly under his gaze and she felt a little ashamed at her lack of grace.
She sighed and looked Toni in the eye. "Toni, I want you to promise me you won't use that word, ever."
Her son's brow furrowed in confusion. "Is it a bad word?"
Before Rebecca could answer with more snark than necessary, her father interrupted patiently. "Yes. It's a bad word. That's why you shouldn't ever use it."
Toni only seemed ever more confused. "But why would Mrs. Haymer call Mommy something bad? Mommy's the best!"
Rebecca couldn't help the fond smile that pulled at her lips. She reached over his food to pat him on the head. "You're not so bad yourself, kiddo." She went back to eating.
Her father took the conversation back to the matter at hand. "Toni, Mrs. Haymer says things she doesn't mean."
Rebecca snorted. "More like she doesn't know half of what she's saying." Her father shot her another disapproving glance.
Toni looked down at his food. "Mrs. Haymer said that it's 'cause I'm a...a..." he scrunched his chubby face to remember the word, "a bastard and that's why Mommy's that bad word."
Rebecca immediately bristled. She set her food aside and pushed herself from the table with the full intention of heading off to that old hag to give her a piece of her mind, but her father pulled her forcefully back to her seat. "Rebecca, calm yourself."
"She can say whatever the hell she wants about me, but she should never say anything about Toni! He's got nothing to do with it!" she said through gritted teeth.
"Rebecca, think about what you are showing Toni right now."
Rebecca glanced over at her son, who looked between his mother and his grandfather, confused and a little scared at his mother's outburst. Immediately, her anger disappeared, replaced with slight shame.
She reached over to stroke his cheek gently and smiled when her son instinctively leaned into her touch. "I'm sorry for getting so angry. I'm not mad at you," she clarified, "I'm mad at Mrs. Haymer for being so unreasonable."
Her son nodded. "It's okay, Mommy." The young boy then lit up. "Oh! I forgot!" he grinned when his mother and grandpa looked at him, waiting for his response. "I saw this huuuuuuuuuuuge bug in the forest! It was awesome!"
They ate the rest of their dinner, laughing at Toni's story. Later that evening, Rebecca tucked her son into his bed before padding softly to her father.
He took one look at her dark glare. He sighed.
Rebecca stayed adamant. "I don't care what you say, you're not stopping me from going straight to that bitch to let her know exactly what's on my mind."
Her father tried to protest, but she cut him off before he could. "She's poisoning him, Father! She's going to keep telling him I'm a slut and he's a bastard and once he finds out what these things mean, it'll ruin him!"
"No," her father said firmly, pushing back at her rage. "What will ruin him is not the hurtful words of a gossiping neighbor, but the rage he will see in you if you snap."
"Toni doesn't need to know whether I yell at her or not."
"You screaming at Mrs. Haymer will only encourage her. The poison between you and her will worsen." Rebecca glowered at his words. Her father was always infuriatingly reasonable.
"She has no right to call Toni a bastard, Father! I was the one who messed up! Why should Toni have to live through that?"
"What Toni lives through is none of your concern," her father retorted, ever patient, ever the voice of reason. "What is your concern is how you conduct yourself in front of him and how you love him through whatever obstacles or rumors he may face."
He sighed at her when he saw that she was not listening. "Stop being a child, Rebecca," he said sternly. "You're not angry because of what Mrs. Haymer said to Toni. You're angry because she has wounded your pride." His words cut straight through her. She blushed at being seen through so easily. "You're still not over the fact that Richard broke your heart and having that shoved in your face has made you resentful."
He was right. He was always right. Rebecca's fists and jaw clenched as she fought the urge to excuse herself and to accept his words as the truth she knows them to be.
"You have a son, now," he continued. "Your life is no longer your own. Make the sacrifices to your pride, Rebecca. That is what Toni needs."
"And what I need?" She hated herself. She was selfish, she knew it.
"What you need is to move on," was his answer.
"How?" she demanded.
But her father had no response.
Toni was six when she had to plan her father's funeral.
She watched solemnly as they lowered the coffin into the ground, Toni's hand gripped tightly in hers. She hadn't cried at all during the funeral. All the memorial services she planned, all the viewings she put on, she didn't shed a single tear.
She waited as they filled the hole in the ground with new dirt. Rebecca felt empty. She didn't even have the energy to scold Toni or chase after him when he broke his hand away from her and ran away. She stood still as she watched her father get buried.
It was a peaceful death, she told everyone. He died in his sleep. He had gotten married late, had a child late, started his business late. It was just about his time.
She watched silently while they finished burying her father.
She felt a small hand pull persistently at her sleeve. She glanced down to see her son holding a dandelion toward her in triumph. "Mommy, look! It's the wish-flowers Grandpa likes! We should show it to him when we get home so we can make wishes!"
Her son had the brightest grin on his face as he held up the little weed and for a moment, Rebecca couldn't breathe. For the entire six years that she raised this child, Rebecca had always believed that his dark eyes and glowing smiles were the genetics of the man who had left her heart in tatters. But now—with memories of her father's gentle grin and cheerful voice flashing through her mind—when Toni's dark eyes looked up at her with all the adoration in the world, she couldn't help but think that those eyes and that smile weren't Richard's at all. It was the way her son quirked the corner of his lips. It was the way his teeth shined in the daylight. No, that smile and those eyes. They were her father's.
The heaviness in Rebecca's chest burst forth and tears started to stream down her cheeks as she bent down to hold her son's hands in her own.
"Mommy?" Toni asked, confused at her tears. "Are you sad?"
She nodded her head. "Yes, Toni, I'm sad." Her hands trembled around his.
He tilted his head. "Why?"
"Because when we go home, Grandpa's not gonna be there."
His eyes widened. "Huh? Why?! Where'd he go?!"
Rebecca swallowed against the lump in her throat. "I told you, already, Toni. The Harvest Goddess took him to the sky."
"But he'll be back, right?"
She shook her head. "No, Toni. He won't be coming back. When you go to the sky, you can't come back."
Immediately, his lip began to tremble as his eyes filled with tears. "But… But I wanna play with Grandpa!"
The sob she had been trying so hard to suppress hiccupped out of her throat and she took her son into her arms and said, "I know you do, Toni. I do, too."
As Toni lamented the grandfather who taught him that wishes come from dandelions and monsters run away by his presence, Rebecca held the sobbing child in her arms and remembered her father. She remembered his smile, constant and forever, and the gentle, upright lilt of his voice as he guided her through life.
The next day, Rebecca walked into the shop and opened it on her own. The inside of the shop felt empty as she finished the projects her father had started. Her hands were shaking as she drew the lines needed to complete his blueprints. Her eyes began to blur when she assembled the half-finished models her father had been having trouble with. After a few hours of trying to work, she had to stop. She sat in the chair that her father usually occupied and buried her face in her hands, quietly shaking.
These were her father's tools, her father's designs. It was his laugh that echoed in these walls. It was his smile that burned itself into her memory. It was his gentle hand that had lifted her up and kept her sane.
This shop that had been witness to every joke, every tear, every sleepless night poring over blueprints and projects...was hers alone now.
When she stopped trembling, she lifted her head. She took in a deep breath and went back to work.
Rebecca turned out to be an even better architect than her father. Over the next three years, she became famous in the little corner of the world they lived, and everyone who bought her blueprints always appreciated her hard work.
But she held no love for the town that held too much heartbreak and too many memories. The only reason she had left to stay was buried six feet under and the words he had told her nine years ago repeated throughout her heart until she grew fidgety and restless. What was forward? Was this where her life should end, before it even began? All there was left in this town full of memories was the persistent rumors of nosy neighbors and the dying remnants of a father she adored.
Was this all she could offer her son? Only nine years old, yet trapped in a place of judgment; forced to live a life of stigma because of her and her own stupid mistakes? He deserved better, much better than...here.
She was in the back, working on some blueprints when she heard the bell over the shop entrance door chime. She emerged from the back room to greet the customer. In front of her stood a man in an old, tattered brown trench coat. He had a goatee that was so outrageous that she almost laughed at him. When he saw her walk through the purple curtains separating the workshop from the counter, he tipped his old brown hat at her.
"Howdy," he greeted. "You must be Rebecca. I've been hearing great things about your architect skills in these parts."
She placed her hands on her hips and looked at him suspiciously. "Yes, I'm Rebecca. Can I help you?"
"Yes, actually, you can help me." He cleared his throat. "My name is Dunhill. I'm not here to buy blueprints," he started and raised his hand to keep her from interrupting. He stared pointedly at her and continued, "But I have an invitation for you." He pulled out an envelope from an inside pocket of his coat and laid it on the counter in front of her.
She eyed it disinterestedly for a moment before moving her gaze back to his face. He seemed unfazed by her suspicion and merely nodded eagerly toward the envelope. Slowly, she reached out and picked it up from the countertop. She opened it and saw a flyer. She read the first line.
Welcome to Echo Town!
She raised her eyebrows at him. He grinned at her cheerfully. "I hope you consider it! We're a small community, but very tight-knit. We've got a farm nearby and a river and…well you can read all about it in the letter."
He glanced at his watch. "Oh! Look at the time! I gotta head out, but if you ever think that you'd like to come live with us, then don't hesitate to give me a call! My number is in the letter."
She nodded. "Thank you for this. I'll be sure to contact you if I think it's worth my time."
He laughed at her straightforwardness. "Understood, Ma'am!" He tipped his hat at her. "Hope to hear from you soon, Ms. Rebecca!" Then, he was gone.
Rebecca looked down at the flyer in her hands. She read the letter with increasing interest. "Hmph," she said to no one in particular. "Seems like an interesting place."
A moment later, the bell chimed and she saw her son walk through the door. "Hey, Mom! Are we having lunch soon?"
"We sure are, kiddo. But first, what do you think about moving somewhere new?"
Toni immediately stared at her, wide-eyed. "Is it a cool place?"
She glanced at the flyer and read it aloud. "Well, it says here…"
Her father's words from nine years ago echoed in her heart.
You keep moving forward.
A/N: I don't know about you but that last scene definitely had a Marvel Avengers post-credits feel, don't you think?
In any case, I always thought Rebecca had some sort of past. Too bad she's not a marriage candidate; would have been interesting to see how the whole courtship thing would go about since she has her own son. But, well, this is Harvest Moon, so I guess such a thing wouldn't ever happen.
Anyway, I'm basing this off of the fact that Rebecca never talks about her past, at least as far as I know, so I may have made some kind of slip and missed some obscure dialogue with her that reveals something about her past. If that's the case, then think of this as a sort-of-AU. Or not. Ugh, I don't know, I've been agonizing over this one-shot for the longest time (I've been working on it even BEFORE I wrote the Amir one) and I'm STILL not sure it's up to snuff. Honestly, the heavy themes in this one-shot requires at least a couple of chapters of real development, but I was so far in that it was too late to change it. Sigh. Oh well, I figured it's now or never.
Ranting aside, I really hope you liked it!