A fierce storm-raged wind blew across the large windows of our small country home, sending a wave of raindrops clashing against them like serrated pieces of crystal against an ice covered floor. Soft, damp streaks of hair stained my mother’s pillow, while her ash-colored face dripped with sweat, caused by the pain in her body. She stared at me with soft, intense, tired eyes, yet managed to speak her sentence with a cheerful tone in her voice, “Rosie, it’s time to say our prayers.”

I kneeled beside her bed, and with a careful movement, stretched my arm across her thin, weak face, in order to embrace her cheek, which completely covered in tears and sweat, seemed more fragile than it had ever before. However, my father would not allow me to even touch her.

“No, Rose, you’ll hurt her!” He hissed the words through his teeth, as if I would purposely hurt my beloved mother. At that moment I knew that there was nothing I could do to ease my mother’s suffering, because, according to my family, I was too young to be of any help. In fact, I was a danger to her. I cringed indefinitely.

My father called for my aunt, Macbeth, who, accompanied by her husband, abruptly came and pulled me away from Mother. I kicked and screamed, but my efforts were worthless. I heard my mother call for me so we could say our prayers together, but her pleadings fell upon deaf ears; they ignored Mother’s requests as much as they did mine. My father’s hushed arguments, which proceeded almost immediately after my having left the room, upset me greatly, because I knew that he was upsetting my dear mother.

His words were fierce, despite knowing her weak condition, “Your blasphemous prayers won’t save you now, Anne; we’ve been through this! I thought we agreed on this the day you became a Christian - no more pagan prayers, especially none addressed to the divine mother.”

“But Chris, I can't die without the blessing of Mary and Her celestial court of Saints...please.” Her voice was weak and raspy, so much so that it sent a dark, cold shiver, down my spine.

“No, Anne, and that’s final! God has already accepted you into His Kingdom. You do not need the prayers of any Jewess or her saints. Mary can’t help you, Anne; she’s dead.” I heard my mother gasp at his last sentence; I did, too.

The night passed by more slowly every hour. I must have fallen asleep during that time, because I have no further memories of that tragic night until after dawn. I slowly tiptoed to my mother’s room; careful not to disturb anyone that might withhold me from her – again. Aunt Macbeth was still asleep with her husband, Morgan, at her side. Their faces seemed cold and emotionless to me now.

As I entered my mother’s room, I realized that her previous bed sheets had been removed and replaced with new, clean linen…in soft, rose pink – her favorite color. At first, I was overjoyed at the fact that Mother was alright and had survived the night, but my father’s countenance told me otherwise. I stared intensely at him for a brief moment, but it felt like a century. “Where’s Mother, Dad? Where did you take her?”

In my heart, I knew his pending answer before he spoke it. “She’s not here, Rose.” His answer seemed mockingly insufficient to me.

“Where is she, Chris? Tell me!” This was the first time that I had ever called my father by his first name. I did not recognize my newfound courage. It felt awkward and strange. Thinking back, I probably sounded like a 15-year-old in a 10-year-old’s body.

I started to shout her name aloud, “Mother, mother! Where are you!” It was an exclamation, not a question. Chris walked out the room and shut the door behind him; he wanted me to grieve… alone. I fell onto her bed soaking it with my flood of tears.

Her sweet, tender scent adorned every part of her bed. I breathed in as deeply as I could. Her fragrance euphorically stained all of my senses; yet pierced my heart like a plunging sword.

As a last resort to hold onto my mother, I sighed her name as if, somehow, it could bring her back, as if she could hear me, “Anne…my Anne.”

Nevertheless, no matter how hard I tried to resurrect her from her tragic fate, I knew that it was over. My mother was dead.

I stared across her dresser, engraving each item into my consciousness. Mother had many small things that meant a great deal to her, which she usually kept in small wooden or jewelry boxes. I loved everything that Mother owned, especially her pendants, prayer beads, and bracelets. I shoveled through her drawers, looking for all of her most treasured possessions, before my father had a chance of confiscating them. He seemed to unconsciously hate everything she held dear.

Without a second thought, I grabbed one of her pillowcases, and started to fill it with as many things as I possibly could. Coincidentally, I came across several of her most-adored items, which she had apparently hidden from Chris, as they were folded in-between several of her scarves. Amongst them were her beloved rose-petal prayer beads (which were placed inside a beautiful silver jewelry box, adorned with blood-red roses and three white lilies) – which she had not used since her conversion – and a framed image accompanied by a golden charm bracelet.

The sorrow I had felt for her passing – only minute’s prior – had turned into a dark feeling of hate and resentment. I was numb. Even though I was young at the time, Mother had never kept her quarrels with Chris a secret. There were several nights that she would come into my room and climb into my bed seeking refuge from him. My pillow would always be soaked with her tears the following morning.

I gathered all of the possessions I had compiled and wrapped them as tightly as I could inside the pillowcase so that it would not be too obvious a load. Before leaving my mother’s room, which, at the time, not realizing that it would be my last glimpse thereof, I gazed across it, almost painting a mental picture; one that I could – and would – always remember.

Fate seemed to play along with my plan, because none of my family were in sight as I left her room. I heard Chris talking to someone on the phone, explaining incidents from the previous night; a night I was yearning to forget. I made my way to my bedroom, closed the door hastily behind me, and locked it just as quickly.

Shortly after arriving in Egypt on a missionary outreach with Chris a year prior, Mother had bought me a small, antique treasure chest, which was made by a local craftsman. To her it was the perfect birthday gift for me, since she knew of my love for Eastern myths and folklore. Chris despised this fascination that I had in my head with fairytales and legends, as he thought them worthless, and rooted in the ancient craft of black magic and mythical gods of olden pagan cultures.

Truly, this little treasure chest became my hiding place – my hiding place for Mother’s possessions. I spread them out neatly across the pillowcase, which now served as their scented covering, protecting them from anyone who might stumble across my little chest unexpectedly. Their eyes would meet but a linen case…nothing more, nothing less. In my heart I vowed to protect my mother’s precious possessions; no matter the cost.

A loud knock on my bedroom door delivered me from the painful memories, which never seemed to cease from haunting me. Apart of my mind had to fast forward to the present day (and seven long, dreadful years later at that) before I was able to behave appropriately and sane. I threw the pale blue sheets across my bed and ran to the door, pretending to have been asleep; it would be my only excuse as to my dazed and confused state of mind.

“Hey, Rose, it’s me, are you awake, or still asleep as usual?”

A deep sigh echoed from my chest. “Not her,” I grumbled silently to myself. She came in before I could open, and smiled widely at me. I did not return the happy gesture.

“Are you alright, kid, you seem slightly depressed?”

motherless 10-year-old little girl. Of course, I wasn’t ten years old anymore, and I counted that fact as a great blessing.

“Look, Rose, you’re going to have to accept the fact that Cathy is – or at least will be – your father’s new wife, which inevitably makes her your new stepmother. She’s a very woman for her age, and she also has a good reputation. Also –”

I interrupted her abruptly before she could continue, “Yeah, Cathy is great, in all of her hypocritical glory. She wants me out of the way – period. I wouldn’t be surprised if she shipped me off to boarding school right after her solemn, “I dos.”

Undoubtedly, Cathy was quite beautiful – with long, straight blonde hair, lovely tanned skin, and dark green eyes. However, she had the personality of Shakespeare’s, witch sisters, in 16th century, England. Alas, in her mind, all of her expensive “beauty potions” had the power to cover up any flaw, even that of a horrid persona.

At that moment, Morgan – Beth’s devout husband – came walking through the doorway; he looked puzzled – even afraid in some way. “You’ve told her I see – “

As an immediate reaction, I cut Morgan off in mid-sentence. I had known prior that Beth’s visit was not to ensure that I was doing alright; she had a different motive at hand. “Tell me what, Morgan?”

“Uh, well, I guess I’ll go then. Beth, you can handle this, you’re good at that.” Morgan’s eyes grew wide – from shock most probably – and he turned and left the entrance of my room even more quickly than when he had entered.

“Well, I suppose it’s time you were clued in on the real matter of things. Your father, Cathy, and I have all decided it to be the best decision for you, and especially for the new family, if we changed your name from ‘Rose’ to ‘Lily’. After all, the last thing Chris – or the new soon-to-be Mrs. Maguire – wants to be reminded of is your mother, Anne, and her obsession with religion and roses.”

“You’ve done what! Really, Beth, this goes even past your selfish ways. How is it that you have always felt the urge to play God over my life? When, in fact, you are nothing of me! And now Cathy, who is even less of me than you, has decided that my mother – who is first and foremost the woman of this house, even though she is dead – should be permanently removed, not just by her name and belongings, but by even renaming me!”

“Well, for one, I am your father’s sister, which, naturally makes me your aunt by blood connotation; but as I’ve always noted, you are nothing like Chris or our family. Why not show a little bit of respect – or even appreciation – for our efforts and choice in this regard. It might do you some good. In fact, it might even teach you some portion of humility.”

Beth refused to answer my questions directly; but instead, gave me an indirect answer, as she always did when I confronted her about a particular matter at hand.

“Respect? Chris never showed any respect for my mother’s or choices; and neither did you, Macbeth! She wanted to name me ‘Rosemary,’ or, at best, ‘Rose,’ but Dad would have none of it. Therefore, he chose ‘Lily.’ Mother hated that name. Now, after all these years, instead of resurrecting and cherishing her memory, Chris buries her even deeper, and resurrects his choice of a name for me! My mother knew what she wanted to name me and she stepped up for it, too. She didn’t collapse under your manipulative spells, no matter how much you verbally abused her!”