Fleur made her way through the dining room and decided to take a detour down the hall. It was quiet there. She studied the pictures that lined the walls… they were of her mother. She had grown up seeing these photos – they were familiar – but now, looking at them after her mother’s death, they took on new meaning. Her favorite was of a much younger, happier version of Samantha. She was wearing a red halter top, wide-leg trousers and wedges. It was Fleur’s favorite because it was the one picture she saw some resemblance between them two. Her mother’s hair cascaded down her back into midnight black curls and her eyes were an icy green. It was the only time she had seen her mother look happy. Who were you, mom? There were an endless amount of questions drifting through her mind. But what did it matter now that no one was left to give her answers?
She let herself drift away from the pictures of the past and found herself walking into her mother’s childhood room. It was now just a mere guest room with blue-gray walls, a white cast iron bed and yellow curtains, but it had once been special to her mother. Fleur noticed boxes scattered everywhere within the room, all with the name Samantha written in black Sharpi. There was a sea of pictures – from birth to adulthood – covering the bed. It was too much for her to bear. On one hand, she was curious to know more… to see more. But then again, she loathed this woman and just the sight of her knotted Fleur’s stomach. She quickly turned the other direction and headed to the main living room where her husband and family were visiting. No one acknowledged Fleur’s absence, but her grandmother – catching her eye – gave her a knowing look.
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