His soft footsteps filled her ears as she sat at her desk, twisting one of her corkscrew curls around her index finger. Though she was aware of her son's presence in her bedroom, she sat with her brown eyes fixated upon the photograph in her hand. Part of her wanted Henry to see the photograph, but the protective, maternal half of her told her that it was best that he didn't know his father.
“Mum?” Henry said quietly, sitting on the foot of his mother's fourposter bed. She knew his eyes were on her back, but she attempted to make it seem as though he was speaking too quietly. Of course, the mother-son duo knew each other too well for Henry to have repeated himself. He chose not to. He knew very well that his mum was listening to him; he also knew that she knew what he was going to say.
“Happy birthday,” she said, as though trying to avoid the question that her son was bound to ask.
“Mum, you promised me that you'd tell me about my dad. Please, please tell me. I'm twelve now and I've never even heard a story about my father.”
“One story,” she promised.
“The whole story,” he bargained.
“The whole story,” his mother agreed. She got up in the graceful manner she always held herself with and sat down next to her son. Though he was reaching his teen years, he still loved to cuddle next to his mother. He allowed her to wrap her arm around his shoulders and hold him close. He'd do anything if it meant he got to hear about his dad: the man he'd never met.
“Don't leave anything out.”
“I won't,” she said softly as she kissed the top of her son's head and tried to think of a good place to start from.
This is where our story begins. It begins in a way that most stories do not. We're backtracking, telling a story of Henry Wood's father. We're also telling a different story: the wonderful romance that Trista Greene shared with a wonderful, but irresponsible, man. A story of star crossed lovers, if you will. A story so pure, yet completely tainted.
Trista told her story from the beginning...
“Well, your father absolutely loved Quidditch,” Trista began slowly. She smiled at her son, laughing softly as his eye lids fell over his eyes like blinds. Stroking his hair gently, she kissed his cheek.
“He was so sweet,” she said. “He always held the door opened for me, and other women too, just like a gentleman should. He was just...not ready for the responsibility of you.”
“Is that why he left us, Mum?”
“I suppose. I came home from taking you to your grandparents' house one day and his things were gone with just a note. He told me to take care of you in the letter. He also said that we'd be better off without him, which I'd beg to argue a case with.”
“Why did he leave if he loved us?”
“Sometimes, love has its boundaries, and your dad didn't know how to deal with having a child.”
“You can tell the story, now.”
“All right,” Trista said as she kissed her son once more.
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