After some hours, my father—Cedric Thornvale—and that old hag, Morwenna Thornvale, arrived. They had left their work the moment they heard the news: Mother had given birth to a girl.
I lay beside her, the only thing I could do right now. Father entered first, a bright smile spreading across his face, excitement lighting his eyes.
My father wasn't like other fathers. Let's just say he was a mama's boy—heartwarming in his own way, though I still didn't fully understand the man.
My vision had cleared a little. Father looked young and handsome: sleek black hair swept back, broad chest, dressed in a sharp black suit. Good looks were the only worthwhile thing the old hag had passed down to him.
As soon as he stepped in, he stopped beside me, leaning down to observe me for a long moment. Then he gently took my tiny hand in his.
His hands were rough, strong. The touch felt completely new. Maybe because I was a newborn now.
"Elowen… she is so beautiful. Our precious daughter," Father said, his voice thick with heartfelt warmth.
Mother nodded, "Yes," as she held my other tiny hand. They looked so happy together. Cassia had wanted to be a mother; I wondered how my own mother felt right now.
If only that old hag had died earlier, we could have lived like this all along. I knew they weren't perfect parents, nor a perfect couple, nor even true lovers—but they were happy to have me.
My mother and father were just side characters, puppets dancing on Grandmother's strings. Speak of the devil—here she came.
She wore a dull black ball gown that somehow made her look younger, though the effect was grotesque. That dress looked evil, just like her. No smile touched her face as she walked slowly toward me. Her downward-curved mouth was uglier than her wrinkles. If anyone else had been in my place—a baby with a less conscious mind—she would have made them cry.
And what took her so long to arrive? Did her pussy catch dust or something? I still don't understand how my grandfather managed five children with her.
Enough. She stopped beside Father, leaning in as if to check whether I was truly a girl. I could tell, you sexist bitch! You were hoping for a boy, weren't you? Well, surprise—you look ugly young. Feel free to have one yourself. Just don't kill the baby.
Morwenna closed her eyes in clear disappointment. As if she could be more obvious. Not only are you a terrible representation of a woman, you can't even act.
"Congratulations, both of you," she said, her voice carrying not a single pinch of happiness.
With that she turned and moved toward the window, opening it and staring out. She made things awkward for my parents. At this stage, everything you do makes my blood boil.
"Well, Mother, what should we name her?" Father asked, trying to lighten the tension.
"You are the father. What do you have in mind?" Morwenna replied, cold, clearly uninterested.
Father turned to my mother. "Elowen, what do you suggest?"
I shifted my gaze toward her. Her hair was a little messy but soft as silk. Sweat glistened on her skin from exhaustion; faint outlines of dark circles shadowed her eyes, though they hadn't fully formed yet. She needed sleep—childbirth was no joke. But she looked gorgeous. Nothing could change that. I wondered what I would look like when I grew up.
"You said if it's a boy, you will name him Lucian," Mother said, her voice gentle but still restless from exhaustion. "So what about Lucia? Lucia Thornvale."
Father shifted his gaze to me. I saw his eyes firm with sudden certainty.
"Yes… that's perfect. Welcome, little Lucia."
He slipped his finger into my tiny hand. I closed my fist around it instinctively—had to act like a baby. I'll go full out once I'm older.
Then I heard another set of footsteps approaching the room. It was my uncle, Rowan Thornvale. How had I forgotten about him?
He was Morwenna's first son. My father, Cedric, was the third. I also have two aunts, both married now, and we never had much bond—except when they caused trouble from time to time.
It is said that firstborns normally carry the maximum amount of genes from their parents—especially the mother. Uncle Rowan was just that. Those two—him and Morwenna—were the worst people in the family. If they were gone, we could live happily.
Uncle Rowan adjusted his thick maroon suit. The fabric was deliberately heavy, designed to hide his fatherly belly. He looked big, but… AHHH. Let's move on. I'll get to him when the time is right.
Uncle Rowan stepped toward my father and repeated the same process everyone else had—leaning in to observe the newborn as any normal person would. Unlike Morwenna, this bastard knew how to act. Disgusting.
Let me talk about Morwenna and my previous life for a bit.
Morwenna had five children—or used to have. Three sons and two daughters. She was the type of woman who was wildly overprotective toward her sons—so much so that her boys didn't engage in any kind of physical activity until they reached nineteen or so.
I'm talking about spoiling them until they turn weak. One time in my previous life I raised my voice at Father—not even loud—and I saw him tremble. The shake was unmistakable. I apologized at once.
I knew then: my father had been made weak. All of it traced back to Morwenna.
Uncle Rowan doesn't care who speaks to him. He lacks the kindness my father has, or the kindness my other uncle—Alistair Thornvale—once had.
Uncle Alistair died before I was born, same as Grandfather. I didn't even know I had another uncle until much later. Servants and scattered family whispers were my only sources. He sounded genuinely kind.
People said he looked like Grandfather, but that meant nothing to me. I only ever saw their paintings. I wonder what they were truly like, because unlike Morwenna, I only ever heard good things about Uncle Alistair and Grandfather.
So how did Uncle Alistair die?
The same way that nearly killed me as a child. Uncle Alistair and I shared one fatal trait: we were both allergic to blueberries. And the old hag—Morwenna—loves blueberries.
She refused to believe an allergy could touch her precious youngest son. To her, it was an impurity he could never carry. He was already ill enough. One day, purely to prove her point, she baked a blueberry pie herself, carried it to him, and fed it to him.
The rest is obvious.
If she truly killed her most beloved son just to win an argument, then everyone should hate her, right? They would—if the truth had reached them.
Only a handful of servants witnessed it. The story raced through the staff quarters but never crossed into family ears.
I only learned because of Tamsin Fairley, a maid's daughter I played with as a child. She… I'll come back to her later.
And it all fits: the guilt that flickers in Morwenna's eyes, the cracked ego, the hesitation whenever Uncle Alistair's name is spoken. Her favorite son—gone because of her arrogance.
But don't waste sympathy on her. She wasn't finished.
She refused to accept the allergy was the cause—for years. Unlucky me: born one year after Uncle Alistair's death.
I became her most beloved grandson, and I loved her just as much. Someone please cut my tongue—how did I ever say that out loud? What did you expect from a child who knew nothing of the world or his own family?
Morwenna spoiled the absolute hell out of me. I turned into a needy, whining little brat.
And yes—she shoved ridiculous amounts of blueberry everything down my throat. I spent half my childhood sick, until she finally swallowed the fact that the allergy was real. That day felt like salvation.
When the sickness finally lifted, it left wreckage behind: a fragile body, a pathetic immune system. I was skinnier than any boy my age. Yet still I was spoiled—by no one but the old hag herself.
For eleven years, I did nothing but play, tormenting everyone in my path. I carried myself like some petty king, convinced I could do whatever I pleased—and I pretty much did. Uncle Rowan only fed the fire, amplifying my arrogance instead of knocking any sense into me.
My mother, Elowen, actually tried to be a real parent. Unlike my father, who bent to Morwenna's every word without a trace of independent thought, she fought to discipline me. But Morwenna—being Morwenna—would turn on her in an instant, scolding her for daring to act as a mother should. Elowen was waging her own private war, and the strain was wearing her thin: exhaustion, irritation, quiet despair.
It was painfully clear. A husband whose first loyalty was forever his mother, never his own judgment. A mother-in-law who ruled every soul in the household and crushed even the smallest of her daughter-in-law's desires beneath her heel. And worst of all, her own son—me—slowly hardening into a perfect mirror of both his father's spinelessness and his grandmother's tyranny.
I can no longer blame her for walking away. Leaving that house to return to her parents was an act of courage; I respect her for it now, deeply. But back then, as she packed and prepared to go, I was flooded with questions, confusion, and resentment. Worse, I was already being shaped—manipulated—by the very people she was fleeing.