"You can't go on like this, Fiona."

That was what my mother said when she saw Augustin walking alone in the large garden. Though the distance between my mother and me has been narrowed, there is still enough space for us to have difficulty sharing with each other. I put down the unfinished knitted hat I am working on and watch my mother who is ageing every moment. I know what she is referring to, but I still pretend not to understand and ask:

"What do you mean?"

"You can't just ignore Augustin forever. He's your husband, after all."

"My husband," I snap at her, continuing to knit the hat. "I don't need everyone reminding me of that. Augustin is my husband, and I'm his wife. Our relationship is still beautiful."

"Is it really?" My mother looks at me with an experienced and sly gaze.

I sigh heavily, then put the pile of knitted yarn aside. I turn my head to look outside, where my husband is walking absentmindedly. I am not a cold-blooded woman or emotionless. I really feel sorry for Augustin being like that. If I did not bring up that issue, Augustin would have been a good husband. But real life does not contain “if”, doesn’t it?

A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

"He is the reason Elizabeth died, Mom. I can't forgive him, at least not now."

"Fiona, about Elizabeth's death, I am her grandmother, and I feel the same pain as you do now. But ask yourself, does it ever occur to you that you are the reason for your argument?"

I bow my head, unable to answer right away. I stand up and move toward the shimmering glass door to look outside. Whenever I am confused, I claw at the corner of my fingernail as a way to cope. My eyes are watery, trying not to cry because I cannot bear to be weak. My mother also sighs beside me. A widow at a mature age, living in a large and wealthy house, but always agonising. Being a mother is her whole life's job, and children like us, even though we're grown-ups, we are still children who need to be taught. She gently continues:

"I've never liked Augustin, and I've always believed that you'll be happier marrying Enzo. But you've had your chance, and you have made your choice, Fiona. You must face your decision, my child."

I turn to look at my mother, tears rolling down my cheeks. I notice the corner of her eye is also damp. She says:

"You are no longer Fiona Lamstrong, you are now Fiona Morten!"

The church bell rings and the vows suddenly echo in my ears again. My body shakes as if entering the church. Paper flowers fly in the air, some landing on the veil. This family name will follow me down to the grave, no matter what I do, I cannot change that.