A/N: The complete lack of reviews and responses to my story Collections has led me to delete it. I am going to try posting the short stories that were in it by themselves in hopes for a better response. My apologies if you have already read this.
It's the little things that one begins to notice about their mother, small things that lead up to one big thing you pray for every night, not knowing what it is. Of course, as a little girl, you don't see anything but the smiles, the laughter, the lullabies, the shared happiness with your father. But as time goes on, as you begin developing concerns and thoughts that you dare not voice out loud; seeing the pain hidden is already terrible enough. To see it come out into the open would be unleashing demons of pain that would tear through the fragile yet so very strong flesh of my mother, killing her before my eyes. I could and would never do that to her. I love her too much, she has given me too much.
Which is why, when I see the things I see, when I can sometimes feel the pain in her every movement, every gesture, I keep it to myself. I do not tell my father, I do not tell my brother. I only tell God, not even voicing the entirety of my thoughts to Him, fearing my mother would be punished in some way. Oh, but I do pray for her sake. I pray for something I know nothing about, but I know it is there, haunting her just as it haunts me, however exponentially more of a burden to her than it could ever be to me.
I don't remember when I first started noticing how these things all tied together, but I most likely saw them happen my entire lifetime so far. I looked up to my mother with the utmost awe and respect, and was always close to her emotionally and physically since birth.
The farthest back I remember became a constant in my life, and it very likely happened before this, but of course I daren't ask. It was a small token, what I now come to realize as a ring, a black stone set in the center of it. I had never seen a true ring with a pure black stone, and thought it to merely be a prop from a previous show at the opera, maybe a memory of her performance in it.
It was always hidden, noticed by no one except for me. She especially kept it hidden from my father, and tried to hide it from my brother and I. It was always kept with her and only came out when biting her lower lip didn't suffice for her anxiety. She ran her lithe fingers over its loop, sometimes slipping it on and off again but never on her ring finger. That was where Father's ring was, and it stayed in its place for the rest of her life.
For someone that seemed so fragile on the outside, a timid Vicomtess shorter than I even am now at seventeen and petite with her porcelain and flawless skin, she embraced the darkness immensely. Sometimes it even made me uncomfortable, the way her face would light at the mention of leaving the safety of our home to go into the dark, whether for an event or simply to go on a walk. Later she discovered that if she was able to slip out without my father noticing, she could take frequent night walks, much to his dismay. Heaven knows what lurked out there, but I always offered to accompany her, at which she thanked me but refused, telling me to stay with my brother and care for him while she was gone.
Once, after his seventh birthday, I asked my brother to be polite and offer to go with her, wondering if perhaps she would let him. Erik always did so, but she refused, telling him to go back to his schoolwork or help his father in some way.
And every second Thursday of every month, sometimes even more frequently, she would visit her father's grave. I remember distinctly the flowers she brought to him, flowers of all seasons, as she would always tell us that he loved every season differently.
However, one particular odd, summer day, she was quiet and reserved, barely speaking to me or Erik. Father avoided her, yet the next day they were normal. From then on, a single rose was added to the bouquet of flowers she took to the graveyard.
Although these things did set her apart from other mothers, I cease to mention how absolutely strong she was. Rarely would a child be able to say with a certain tone that if, heaven forbid, there was ever a time when Erik, Father, or my lives were in danger, she would not hesitate to risk her life instead. No, nothing like this has ever happened, but it is shown in the other small things I notice. The shared comfort and love with my father, small murmurings by the fire after supper. The love and affection that glistened in her blue eyes as she trained me in the voice lessons I begged her for, the same love and affection given to my brother whenever he became frustrated with schoolwork. The laughter that seems to ring across the entire house, as pleasant a sound as her voice. The lullabies that ever so gently cradled me to sleep when I was small, afraid of the darkness that came with nighttime.
For these things I forgive her, although I would forgive her for anything. It is worth keeping the pain I see flash before her eyes as she prepares for outings to see an opera, or hears the music at the parties it is only custom for a Vicomte and Vicomtess to hold and attend. No, I will keep this a secret from my father, from Erik, and I will cherish the mother that I love with all my being.
A/N: To clear some things up, no, Christine is NOT cheating on Raoul, she merely embraces the walks in darkness as she hopes to see Erik again, but never does. Also, yes, she named her son after him. AND both Angelique and Erik are most definitely entirely the children of Christine and Raoul, no adultery here.