~Tahlia.

A rainy landscape began to take form on my canvas, the dreary and sad atmosphere spanning the top half of the painting serving as an accurate reflection of my soul's timbre. I currently sprinkled slanted flecks of indigo paint that plummeted to the ground I hadn't yet brought to life. Soon, the raindrops I painted would finally outnumber the lonely tears I had shed during my five days of imprisonment thus far.

My predicament in discovering a counter to my boredom proved itself quite pressing. I lacked the attention span and concentration to enjoy a good book to pass the time. Yet I also experienced a woeful motivational famine. Even though I forced myself into some painting, in reality, I simply went through the motions to pass some time.

Then the door to my studio creaked open, and with a tired glance back, I realized it was my mother who had entered. With a forced smile, I dipped my head to acknowledge her, and then I set my brush and palette down to give her my full attention.

"Lovely work there, Tahlia." my mother said, glancing over the half-painted canvas and smiling, "I see the saying is true, that from great adversity comes great art."

Inside, my heart boiled at her apparent attempt to make light of the pain she caused me, but to my credit, not a muscle in my face betrayed this thought.

"I suppose so." I replied in a level tone, "Did you require my assistance for—"

"I do not require anything, but I have been uncovering some old family treasures long forgotten in the basement. In doing so, I have found a collection of portraits that may interest you."

"I'd be glad to join you, then."

To be frank, spending time with my mother who had inflicted me with this confinement would make me far from glad, but nonetheless, I did find myself intrigued to learn what forgotten portraits lay in the depths of our mansion. So after wiping my hands off on a rag, I followed my mother out the studio door.

At the top of the stairway that looked down on the basement door, I followed my mother's prompting to put on a coat. Out of all the rooms in our house, the basement carried the unique distinction of being the only one not to have been installed with heating. After all, though we had much in the way of wealth, that by no means meant my father was a useless spender for the sake of it.

That done, we made our way down the stairs, and sure enough, a cold draft already swept out from under the door and over my bare feet. Pulling my coat tighter around myself, I followed my mother into the dim, chilly chamber in the depths of our home.

Twin walls of boxes and containers hemmed me in on either side and formed a narrow passageway through which we proceeded. However, here and there, a box had been removed from the stacks, leaving holes and gaps in the walls. If I peeked through here and there, I could spot the many bookshelves occupying a large part of the basement. We owned so many books that the study and various shelves upstairs couldn't contain them all; the basement served as a gathering place for the old, retired, and questionable volumes in our possession.

My mother led me past those bookshelves shortly, finally stopping at a round table underneath a bright lamp. Underneath the spotlight beam sprawled out portraits and photographs of various sizes. Mother immediately reached for one in particular to show me.

"I do not believe I have ever shown you this," she began, "but this photograph was taken on the evening your father and I were wed. Oh, to be young again."

With a brief smile, I took a closer look at the black and white photo. They both appeared so much younger, as their wedding had been just a bit less than thirty years ago. My father in particular laughably lacked the distinguished facial hair he currently flaunted, left at that time with little more than a minimal goatee and a patchy mustache.

As for my mother, I had to give her credit. Looking at her then and looking at her now, little had changed, and whatever youthful glow she had lost was now succeeded by years of wisdom and experience one could readily see on her face. The scattered gray hairs on her head did nothing to detract from her beauty.

"Those were simpler times for us." my mother declared, "Perilous, as well. Believe it or not, we wondered many a time whether we would be able to eat even one meal in the day."

I quirked a brow, glancing up quickly. "You've said you were raised in wealth and affluence, Mother. How can you now claim to have struggled so in marriage?"

"See ... there are things I have failed to tell you, much to my shame. Surely you have wondered why you have never met my own father and mother?"

"Other than a flitting thought here and there, no. I'd assumed they passed on."

My mother solemnly put the photograph of her and my father on their wedding day down on the table. "I was disowned, Tahlia. I found myself disinherited because I dared to love the wrong man."

"How ... how could Father be the wrong man to anyone? He's the noblest man I know!"

"If only my own family could have been brought to see as you do, everything would not be as it now is. My mother insisted that a man of violence and bloodshed was no man to look after her daughter and sire her grandchildren. She could not believe that your father could wield a rifle and cradle an infant with equal legitimacy."

I bit my lip in thought. "And what of your father?"

"He was much of the same opinion. He believed war was little more than a mechanism through which governments could legalize murder, and that any soldier simply following his orders had made himself a criminal as vile as any."

"So the way they see it, you've married a murderer. They never gave Father a chance?"

My mother shook her head woefully. "All was well until they heard of him being in the armed forces."

I grasped the back of a nearby chair. My thumbs caressed its smooth surface as thoughts swirled around in my head. "If you were disinherited, and it sounds like Father had little to his name at first, how are we in the place we are now?"

"As he proved himself as a soldier and began to rise through the ranks, our financial situation finally began to stabilize. We eventually found ourselves able to pay off our debts, buy a house instead of renting ... but nothing has benefited us so much as the reparations from Candor."

"You mean to tell me most of our wealth has come from that war? We ascended from middle class to become peers of the Abrams, simply because Candor instigated a war?"

"Candor murdered our prime minister." my mother corrected, "Thereby sparking a bloody war that spilled much Lymar blood."

"I understand all that, but don't reparations usually come to those who lost a loved one in battle, or perhaps had property destroyed? Aside from distant cousins, we lost nothing, yet gained much."

Mother paused at my question. Her eyes descended to the photographs on the table and danced over them before she finally met my gaze again, presumably with an answer on her tongue.

"That would be a better question for your father ... tactfully. Suffice it to say many men under his command had been old friends of his. They shared desks at school as little boys and tussled on playgrounds together. They also waged war together, only many of them never came home. Your father lost a part of his soul in Candor, Tahlia, and though he returned to me in one piece, I tell you the husband I once knew died along with his comrades."

My heart bled a little upon hearing these words, and my sympathies for my father grew as I mulled over the pain he must have endured. It must have pricked him to the core when the news reached his ears on the battlefield, and the agonizing weight must have crushed his spirits on the road home. Surely some measure of guilt had also been mingled with the gall, given he'd served as the commanding officer over those brave men who had lost their lives in battle against Candor.

"In that case..." I said, my words trailing off as I weighed each one carefully before speaking it, "Father deserves every bit of reparation he receives. One would never know he's endured so much."

Mother pulled her coat tighter around herself. "He is the strongest man I have ever known. Truly a shame my parents never accepted him."

"They allowed their prejudices to intrude on their judgement of his character."

As my mother's thoughtful nod ushered in a bout of silence between us, I couldn't help but note a massive incongruity on her part. One would have expected a woman estranged from her family on account of prejudice to take care not to partake in similar attitudes herself. But yet here she stood, stewing in convictions against all Candorians based on the actions of a few among their number. The irony baffled me. 

* * * * * 

A/N: Bit of a peek into Mama Paige's past here; hope that was enjoyable to read, and I'd love to hear your thoughts on it as well! Does her outlook on things seem to correlate with her experiences in your opinion, or maybe is she a paradoxical figure?

Either way, kindly vote and comment if you liked the chapter, it's always greatly appreciated. ❤️

Now, I completely forgot to post one of these last chapter, but random question of the day! What's your most annoying trait/habit? 

(I feel like I annoy people by not replying to things right away. Voluntarily and otherwise, my schedule's usually pretty packed, so I legitimately just have a hard time keeping on top of things in what others would consider a timely fashion. I love patient people for that reason. 😂)

Anyways, have a great week, and I hope to see you in the next update!