Work Text:
Dove stared at herself in the mirror.
Her hair had all gone grey. It still hung down to her shoulders, bangs curling above her eyes, a style she had favoured for so many years that she struggled to imagine what she would look like otherwise. Dove lifted a few strands of her hair. Silvery-grey, not a speck of her old brown to be seen. It was still soft, though, soft as down, slipping through her fingers easily. Magnolia's hair had always been hardier, thicker, when Dove would draw her fingers through it early in the morning, the two of them still half-drowned with sleep.
Dove shook the image away. Her hair wasn't the only thing that had changed. Her skin had changed, too, so many more folds slicing into her than there used to be. At the corners of her eyes, framing her mouth. It was… not quite softer, but frailer, somehow. As though it would take only the simple drag of one fingernail across it to break the skin, let the red beneath blossom above.
Dove stared at herself in the mirror. She had grown old.
It wasn't often that she did this, looked into the mirror and held her own gaze. Too often, the reflection of her failures— of Magnolia Faragher— shone through. She didn't like it. Today, she made herself look. It was a strange exercise, one she did not think she had the correct muscles for, one that would leave her sore and aching for weeks and weeks afterwards. Her eyes had remained the same colour, almond-brown. This was not surprising. Eyes did not tend to change colour. Dove did not have cataracts. She was not yet that old.
It was strange. Once upon a time, Dove had dreamed of growing old with Magnolia by her side. Had dreamed of watching as silver bound itself to the locks of Magnolia's hair, of tracing the lines that would deepen across Magnolia's face, of her hand in Magnolia's. She had been such a dreamer. Magnolia had always been the scientist. She wondered if Magnolia ever thought of this.
Dove couldn't imagine Magnolia being so sentimental.
Although, that was perhaps the weight of the years speaking. Once, Magnolia had been a young woman. Once, Magnolia might have dreamt of the feel of Dove's hand in hers years down the line.
Dove sighed and turned away. That wasn't worth dwelling on. Magnolia had made her choice. Dove had made hers.
She shook out her jacket before sliding her arms within. It was a jacket she liked, a tan leather one that she had owned for years, but that she had only really started wearing more often recently. She didn't like to look at the older, lighter one. It was soft and worn and familiar, but it carried the weight of failure like a badge. She had buried it deep within her wardrobe where she hardly saw it. She hadn't yet been able to bring herself to throw it out, maybe give it away to charity, or simply burn it. It wouldn't smell nice if burnt, she reasoned with herself.
Mint was at the kitchen table when she entered, already gulping down spoonfuls of bland cereal in supplement-infused milk, and they nodded to each other in silent greeting as she passed by to reach the sink. Dove had never truly given much thought to motherhood. It wasn't something that Magnolia and she had ever talked about, really. She had always known they had each given too much of themselves to their work to find anything substantial left to give to a child. They had each other, and that had been enough. Dove cracked an egg to poach it, and set a slice of bread in the toaster in the meanwhile. Her meals were never fancy.
"Parents' evening next Thursday," Mint reminded Dove, bringing his bowl and spoon to the sink to wash off.
Dove nodded. She was a parent now, unexpected though it may be. She had been for quite a few years now— Mint was just a few years away from finishing school now. He was taller now, not the bite-sized little thing he used to be, puberty or whatever its equivalent for him having hit him fast. "I'll be there. 4 PM?"
Mint nodded, putting the dishes away on the drying rack. "I'll take the bus to school today," he said, as he had started doing more and more often. Dove still found herself somewhat reluctant to let him wander off on his own, but it was necessary, she thought, to let him develop some independence. He had been sequestered in the woods with only a single person for so long. It did him good to branch out on his own, so to speak.
"Be safe," she said, as she always did, and Mint nodded again, scooping up his school bag from where he had let it slump near the kitchen table.
There was a pause, then, as there always was, a tiny suspension of time as though the very universe were holding its breath, waiting for them. It always felt like they were meant to say something soft and heartfelt here, something like I'll miss you or I love you, or maybe simply bestow a kiss on the cheek.
Instead, Dove said, "Have a good day."
Dove thought she saw a small smile flicker onto Mint's face. "You, too, Dove. Bye!"
Dove bit into her toast. She'd forgotten to butter it. She supposed it didn't matter.
Mint never did call her mom. Dove didn't mind. In fact, if she were being perfectly honest with herself, Dove found that she was relieved by the fact. Dove was not Mint's mom. She was his… parent, his guardian, but not quite his mom. That title belonged to somebody else.
Dove sighed, finishing her breakfast quickly enough. There wasn't anything to relish.
She decided, before work, to check the mail. Although Dove wasn't unaccustomed to mail, it wasn't often that she got real mail, mail that wasn't simply the occasional flyer or unsolicited religious pamphlet or her daily newspaper. That was reserved for special days, or so it had been for so many years that Dove had stopped keeping count. Today was not a special day. But then again, last Tuesday hadn't been one either.
She opened the letterbox, and she realised, strangely enough, that she was holding her breath.
She tried to act surprised when the letter fell out. She fell just short of it, landing somewhere closer to relief.
At least Dove wasn't the only one that still held onto the past.