Chapter 6: Death, Promises, and a Blood Oath

My mother heard these words relayed by our neighbor, but said nothing. She only gently held a spoon, trying to feed my father water.

Her hands were steady, but her eyes shimmered with something sharp and distant. The neighbor’s words hung in the air, unacknowledged.

My father could no longer swallow.

The water dripped down his chin, soaking the pillow. Mom dabbed at it, her fingers trembling just a little.

A word of light compensation from those in power, and it was as if nothing had happened.

People in Savannah always said: as long as the money’s good, most troubles disappear. But some wounds run deeper than dollars can reach.

But when sixty or seventy percent of a person’s skin is blackened and festering, how could there be any cure?

The doctors did what they could—ointments, bandages, prayers—but everyone knew he was living on borrowed time.

Several doctors came, all shook their heads: there was no medicine that could help, only to watch as he rotted away and died.

The best they could offer was a bottle of morphine and a promise that it would all be over soon.

In truth, my father should have left long ago. The only reason he held on was that he had something to say to my mother.

I overheard her whispering, "Just let go, sweetheart. We’ll be alright." But he held on, jaw clenched, eyes fixed on her face.

With great effort, he opened his mouth and used his last strength to say: “Renee, you must not… must not…”

His lips barely moved, but the urgency in his eyes said more than words ever could.

“I know, not seek revenge,” my mother gently held my father’s hand and said softly.

She pressed her forehead to his, voice barely above a whisper, making a promise she wasn’t sure she could keep.

“Don’t worry, I won’t risk myself.”

She squeezed his fingers, her grip the only thing anchoring him to this world.

“That’s the governor—even the senator respects him. How many lives does a regular woman like me have to avenge you?”

She forced a laugh, hollow and soft, trying to lighten the moment.

“I’ll just live well with Lila from now on. Anyway, you saved up a lot of money. I’ll close the shop, and take Lila to enjoy the spring, pick wildflowers in summer, bake pumpkin pie in autumn, and build snowmen in winter…”

She painted him a picture of a gentle life, full of peace—just the two of us, moving through the seasons, finding small joys.

My father was relieved. He closed his eyes in peace, a tear seeping from the corner of his eye.

I watched as his shoulders finally relaxed, his chest rising and falling in slow, shallow breaths.

My mother gently wiped away that tear, as softly and gently as if afraid of hurting him.

She held the tissue with two fingers, her own tears unshed, refusing to blur her vision.

“Have a good sleep. When you wake up, I will still be your wife.”

She bent low, her lips brushing his forehead, voice trembling with love and loss.

After saying this, my mother picked up the daisy hairpin my father had given her as a token of love.

The daisy petals were worn at the edges, the gold dulled by years of use, but she cherished it more than anything.

She closed her eyes, steadied her hand, aimed the hairpin at her already blackened throat, and stabbed it in.

Blood bloomed across her collar, bright as a summer poppy, but her face remained peaceful—almost serene.

……

After my father’s funeral, I found a pair of small golden bunnies in his bundle.

They were tucked in a faded velvet pouch, the kind you’d find at the back of a dresser drawer. I pressed them to my cheek, breathing in the faint scent of cedar.

I hugged them tightly to my chest.

It felt like holding onto a promise—something soft and bright in a world turned gray.

Tears washed the bloodstains from the little bunnies. I wiped my eyes and said, “Mom, I want to go to Savannah.”

My voice was raw, but certain. Savannah was where everything had ended—and where I believed something new might begin.

My mother looked at the white lilies scattered everywhere, was silent for a long time, and said softly:

“Of course, we will go to Savannah.”

Her words felt like both an answer and a prayer, drifting into the hush that followed.