The Story of Heather, Epilogue.

Heather was too afraid to leave her house, and delivered her own baby in her bathtub.

She slept on the floor, by the crib, and fought to stay awake. Still, she would inevitably fall asleep and wake to the sound of her daughter’s wails, and her heart would seize and sink into her stomach when she would look into the crib and stare down at the phlox bouquet nestled next to her baby.

Berriroses, jonquil, pink and yellow carnations, mallow, and oxeye daisies. In each bundle, like a taunt, a single sprig of lavender.

Lavender; like her infant daughter’s name.

If she were kinder…if she were stronger…her hand wouldn’t tremble, when she held a blade against her tiny neck, and the knife wouldn’t fall out of her hands. She wouldn’t hug Lavender to her chest and sob, instead of burying her in the garden, next to her father.

Heather’s cowardice condemned her to live, always under His fathomless stare.

And that is how Lavender’s story began.