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The sky above the town was pewter-grey this morning, the air damp and salted. Heather’s fingers were cold as always, and she rubbed them together on the walk to Magda’s cottage, pretending it was the weather and not her excitement which caused them to tingle.
But of course, it was foolish to pretend.
This… romance, for there was no other way to describe its loveliness and power, had taken Heather completely by surprise. She had not expected to shed her self-loathing at the end of the world and find, in such a desolate place, a woman capable of owning her heart. She had expected to live out her days in misery and solitude. A penance for the pain she’d caused for knowingly taking the holy vow of marriage without a drop of love or sincerity in her heart.
She hadn’t expected her days to be filled with recountings of Russian literature, excursions through botanical wonders, soft mornings which followed passion-filled nights. Heather hadn’t expected to feel joy on the tip of her tongue every time Magda was near her. She certainly hadn’t expected love to bloom, genuine and for the first time, in the centre of her heart.
The cottage door was already unlocked, because Magda was in the habit of unlocking things whenever Heather was near. And not just doors.
Tea was already on the stove. Magda was at her post, her movements neat and precise. She did not look up from her work, but Heather could see the slight smile kissing her lips. She bent to tug off her boots, only to find slippers waiting on the mat. They were small, woolly, and nothing like Magda’s hard-sole leather pair. She took them for the invitation that they were and slid into them, heat enveloping her toes. She laughed quietly to herself as she wiggled her toes and surmised that they were a perfect fit.
She met Magda in the kitchen and found herself breathless as her lover pressed her lips to hers.
“Hi,” she whispered.
Her eyes could hardly contain their mirth. Magda smiled down at her. Her dark eyes glinted softly behind her plum-tinted lenses. A steaming mug of tea was pushed into her hands. Heather looked down at it and felt something warm slide over her chest, like honey on a hot summer’s day.
“This is your mug,” she noted. But Magda reached for the identical one on the counter, causing Heather to frown. “Wherever did you find a matching set in this place?”
Magda’s splendidly expressive brows arched. “I can be persuasive when I want to be.”
There was something in the tone of her voice that caused a shiver to dance up and down Heather’s spine. Yes, Magda certainly could be quite persuasive. Heather was fast becoming acquainted with Magda’s more intimate persuasion techniques. But that wasn’t what had her blushing; it was the fact that Magda wanted to be persuasive for her.
“I’m feeling very spoiled today,” Heather said, smiling into her mug. She could smell the honey already stirred into the amber liquid. And she just knew before sipping that Magda had remembered to put precisely one and one-quarter teaspoon.
“Good,” Magda said simply.
Heather followed her into the living room, and they took their preferred seats on Magda’s sofa. Heather liked the side which afforded her the view of Magda’s bedroom. That door, too, remained not only unlocked but wide open these days. Heather liked it best that way; she could easily pry Magda from whatever book they were reading to the neatly made mattress.
Not that Magda needed prying, mind you. Often, just a look from Heather was enough to make Magda drop whatever it was she was doing to chase after the blonde.
Heather made herself comfortable on the sofa and snuck a glance at the bedroom, wondering if they might make a mess of Magda’s perfectly made bedding today. That’s when she saw it. The middle drawer of the very small dresser just to the left of the bed, which had never closed flush because it overflowed with Magda’s knits. It was flush, closed, perfectly smooth.
Magda followed Heather’s line of sight and nervously pushed her lenses up her nose. “I did some…reorganizing,” she murmured.
Heather lifted a brow. “You did?”
Magda fidgeted with the hem of her argyle jumper. “Oh, go on,” she gently scolded.
Heather placed her tea on the table before them and made her way into the bedroom. It smelled faintly of freshly laundered linen and lavender oil, from the candle that Heather had made for Magda. Heather’s hands caressed the rescued and restored dresser, her fingers lingering on the polished brass knobs. Magda appeared behind her, silent, but stewing in her trepidation. Heather pulled the drawer open and let out a soft gasp when she realized that it was empty. Her throat tightened. She had never asked for a drawer. They had not spoken about clothes or keys or permanence. And yet, here it was.
She turned around, facing Magda. “Where are your belongings?”
Magda shoved her hands in her trouser pockets. “I found myself overflowing with clothing that had no real use here.”
“You got rid of them?”
“I donated them. Kerry took some of my more,” Magda paused, searching for the right words, “beguiling items.”
A breathless giggle left Heather’s lips. “Is that cheetah print blouse of hers one of yours, then?” she teased.
Magda scoffed. “Absolutely not. That leather skirt, however…,” Magda trailed off playfully.
Heather looked down at the empty drawer again. “Thank you,” she whispered into the empty drawer.
Magda, feeling emboldened by the fact that her instinct had been correct, that the timing had been right, placed a hand on Heather’s back. “Ahem, there is also…,” she nodded her head towards the small closet.
Heather slid the drawer closed with care and walked over to the single door closet. She opened it up to find another sight that stole the breath from her lungs. A row of empty hangers on the left side of Magda’s closet. Twelve of them in total, sitting beside Magda’s shirts. Heather found herself almost undone by the sight. Magda hadn’t spared her a single hanger, or even a few. But half of the closet sat empty, waiting for Heather’s sunny yellows and calming greens to hang next to the rich blacks and moody plums of Magda’s armour. It was too many to be an accident, and far too purposeful to be casual.
Magda leaned against the doorframe of the closet, watching her, braced for impact. “Have I frightened you?” she asked finally.
“No,” Heather said.
“No?”
Heather met her eyes. “Maybe a little. I find myself wanting to climb inside and pull the door shut.”
Magda’s mouth curved, and a faint smile graced her anxiously stern features. “It is not large enough for that.”
Heather laughed, watery and raw. “Is that silly of me?” she asked.
Magda cupped her cheek. Her thumb cleared a nervous tear. “If it is, then we’re both quite silly.”
“Why?”
“Because I wish to climb inside with you,” she shared.
“It’s definitely not big enough for the two of us,” Heather pointed out.
Magda pressed her lips to Heather’s forehead. “We’ll make do,” she whispered against her lover’s warm skin.
There was something in the tone of her voice, in the words unspoken but communicated nonetheless, which told Heather everything she needed to know. She didn’t need to climb into this closet or any other and feel alone, ever again.
“Yes, we will,” Heather agreed. She wrapped her arms around Magda’s waist and leaned up on her wool-encased toes to brush her lips against Magda’s. She smiled as her lover leaned down to kiss her properly.
“There is also -”
Heather cut her off with a rather forceful kiss. A hand fisting in silvering hair. A flick of a warm tongue.
“ - a key under the third stone left of the door. In case you come when I am not - oh!”
Heather was steering them both to the bed now. Ocean-blue eyes resembling the hottest part of a flame. “Show me later,” the blonde growled as she pushed Magda onto the bed.
Later, Heather would watch over Magda sleeping in the dark. A soft smile playing at her lips as she imagined the sound of that spare key turning the lock of Magda’s front door. How Magda’s head would turn at it, how her mouth would fail at pretending not to smile.
Space had been made. All that was left for Heather to do was to fill it.
***
The tavern was already crowded by the time they slipped in, the long table groaning under too many bottles of shit beer and bowls of homemade risotto and potato salad. Graham’s fiftieth had drawn most of the town, and Heather could see him at the center of it all, cheeks red from ale, grin stretching wider than usual.
Magda had been the one to insist on bringing a card. “It is customary,” she’d said, as if Heather hadn’t been attending birthdays her whole life. Heather had laughed but made one on their behalf anyway, bright and ridiculous with hand-drawn balloons, the sort of thing Magda would wrinkle her nose at.
In the kitchen, just before they’d taken their leave to come here tonight, Heather had presented it to Magda. Her dark-haired beauty had raised an eyebrow and quirked her lips in amusement and horror at the childish imagery. That hadn’t stopped her from opening it with her pen poised to add her contribution to the card. Magda had written with her usual care, letters precise, strokes sharp, her whole body bent towards the task as if she were drafting a secret report. Heather had merely sipped her tea, amused, until she saw what Magda had written.
Wishing you good health and blessed fortune on this happy milestone. May you be filled with the kindness and peace that you so generously bestow upon others.
Warmest regards,
Magda & Heather
Magda and Heather. Written so close together that the line of Magda’s pen had not stopped at her own name, but merely flowed from the last a into the h as if it were the most natural thing in the world. No pause. No consultation. Just the fluid addition of Heather’s name, their names, tethered together on paper.
Heather’s chest had gone warm, painfully so. It was such a small thing, absurdly small. Three words on a handmade card. She hadn’t been able to recall the last time someone had written her name like that, as part of something plural, something claimed. Not even her ex-husband had ever truly linked their identities together like this, which in hindsight, had been a small mercy.
She’d traced Magda’s gorgeous penmanship with her fingertip. Lightly, careful not to smudge the fresh ink. “You’ve never done that before,” she’d murmured.
Magda’s mouth had twitched, an almost-smile, an almost-defence. And she’d shifted on her feet, adjusting her glasses in an evasive tic that Heather had come to recognize.
“We haven’t been invited to a birthday party before,” she’d murmured.
Heather had tilted her head, part-exasperation, all-affection.
“It seemed appropriate. Yes?”
That was all that had needed to be said on the matter. Heather had pocketed the card. Magda had offered her arm, and they’d set out for the night’s festivities.
Graham’s face was nearing purple now. But Jeremiah pushed another beer into his hands. Heather shot him a warning look.
“That’s enough, now, Jeremiah. We don’t need this to be the last birthday he celebrates.”
Graham tilted his head in Heather’s direction. His pale eyes softened as he listened to the worry in her tone. He didn’t need his sight to know that Magda was right behind her, a devoted shadow to the bright light that Heather cast wherever she went.
“I assure you that I am perfectly fine,” he said, though he slurred his words slightly.
Jeremiah found himself distracted by Jodie, and he quickly wandered off to meet her on the dance floor. Graham found Heather’s wrist on the bar and gently laid a hand over it.
“Thank you for coming,” he said to the woman he genuinely considered a friend among the town full of misfits.
“We wouldn’t have missed it for the world,” Heather assured him.
He seemed to smile wider at hearing the word we. He always was such a hopeless romantic. Heather had nicknamed him Cupid after the fourth time he’d casually suggested that Heather spend some time alone with Magda when she’d first landed here, two years ago.
He patted his jacket pocket. “Jeremiah described your card for me. And read it aloud. I didn’t know that you were such a wordsmith, Magda,” he lightly teased.
Magda glared at the sightless man from over her lenses. She took another sip of her vodka.
Graham could tell that the former spy was thinking of a witty yet appropriate quip to come back with. Magda was not unkind; she would not unleash her sharpened tongue so ruthlessly on his birthday. He leaned forward and pretended to whisper to Heather.
“She’s a secret poet, isn’t she?”
Heather’s nose scrunched adorably. Her eyes flickered over to Magda’s slightly scowling face. Were they not in such a public space, Heather would have leaned over and kissed those prettily pouting lips.
“She is,” Heather pretended to whisper right back.
“How very lucky for you. There is no greater honour one could hope for, than to be loved by a poet,” Graham sighed. His face took on a dreamy expression. No doubt, he saw his beloved late wife in his mind’s eye.
Heather snuck a glance at Magda again. And the urge to kiss her only intensified. Magda looked at her like she was the only person in the room, the only breath that she needed, the very thing that gave her sustenance.
“I know,” Heather said, but not to Graham. She watched as the corners of Magda’s lips curled up into a full, beautiful smile.
Later, on their walk home from the tavern to the cottage - now their cottage - their hands brushed once, then again, until Heather laced her fingers through Magda’s deliberately. Magda glanced sideways, her intensely brooding eyes commanding Heather’s attention until the blonde met her gaze.
“I am not a poet, but I wish that I were,” she quietly confessed under the twinkling stars above them.
Heather slowed their walking. She turned to face Magda, taking her other hand in hers as well. “I think that you greatly underestimate yourself, which is quite unlike you,” she softly teased.
Magda pressed their foreheads together. “I want to write you poems dripping with blood, poems that no one has ever read before. Poems that grow on the edge of madness, poems which melt the stars and the moon down to something which we can hold in the palm of our hands. I wish I could do that for you, lay waste to the stars that you so love to look at, just so that I could bring them nearer to you.”
Heather’s eyelashes fluttered.
“Oh, Magda, but you do. You look at me like that, you give shape to the devotion in your heart, and I feel so light and powerful that I could rip the stars right out of the sky if I wanted to. But that would mean leaving you here on Earth. And I couldn’t stand to be so far from you, my darling.”
At a safe distance from the tavern, Heather leaned forward to press her lips to Magda’s. She felt Magda’s soft little hum vibrate against her. She pressed their bodies closer together until the heat that generated between them could rival that of a new constellation being born.
Heather considered the letters of their names rearranging themselves precisely like giants in the sky. And she smiled against Magda’s lips.
***
It began with a strip of paint on the wall, pale and tentative, just above the dining table. Heather had noticed it one day as she cleared the crumbs from their lunch. A square of colour, lighter than the rest, standing out against the deep plum walls Magda had chosen years ago.
She glanced at Magda, who was busying herself with the kettle as though she hadn’t left evidence behind. “You’ve been painting,” Heather said.
“Just…testing,” Magda corrected, as if that changed the strangeness of it. Magda had lived in this cottage for years without ever once altering its bones. The plum walls had always felt so her , moody, intellectual, almost forbidding. Heather had grown used to her lover’s favourite hue, finding comfort in being surrounded by so much of Magda’s strong personality. She hadn’t ever thought about the walls changing colour.
Heather stepped closer, tilting her head. The shade was soft, not unlike ivory, with the faintest blush of grey. Safe. Controlled. Entirely Magda.
“Do you like it?” Magda asked suddenly. She shoved her lenses up the bridge of her nose.
Heather considered Magda’s question. Her lover simply did not ask such things; she decided them. Always one to give instruction rather than take it. Heather had learned this over the last few blissful years that they’d spent together. Her contributions to the shared cottage had been permitted at the edges only in the form of flowers on the windowsill, an herb garden outside, a scarf draped over the armchair, and throws that she knitted herself to keep them both warm.
Heather touched the wall, her finger tracing the painted patch. “It’s nice,” she said as she considered the colour.
Magda frowned. “Nice is insufficient,” she declared.
She disappeared into the other room, returning with a small sheaf of paint cards fanned in her hand. She laid them out on the table with a kind of grim precision, as if she were setting up evidence for interrogation. Greys, neutrals, a handful of soft blues and greens. All subdued.
“I cannot decide,” Magda said. “And I thought…,” She stopped, as if the rest of her sentence might betray too much.
“You thought that I might help?”
“Yes.” The word was plain, but Magda’s eyes were not. Behind the brevity sat a storm of admissions she wasn’t practiced at making aloud. To let Heather paint their walls was not just the acceptance of one aesthetic over another. It was the ceding of territory, the conscious softening of a fortress she had spent decades fortifying before inviting Heather to live within it.
Heather sat down, her hands careful as she picked up the cards. She knew that this was more than just paint; this was an invitation to use her voice in a place where she had always been careful to tread lightly.
“What do you like?” Magda asked. Her glasses slid nervously up her nose again.
Heather hummed thoughtfully as she flipped through the samples. She caught a flash of colour tucked at the back, her favourite hue of yellow. Bright, unapologetic, and golden. She plucked it free and held it up between them.
“This one,” she said. “Imagine it against the light from the windows. It would make the whole room glow. And it would beautifully complement the colour you already have,” she said, careful to show Magda that she wasn’t interested in invading, or co-opting. She only ever wanted to add to Magda’s space, to complement her lover’s alluring mystery with her own sunnier perspective.
Magda came to stand behind her, leaning close, the scent of cedar and her morning coffee wrapping around Heather. She studied the card in Heather’s hand, brow furrowed. “Marigold is… bright,” she said at last.
“Cheerful,” Heather countered, turning her head until their eyes met.
Magda’s gaze moved over the plum walls again, as if seeing them for the first time. “And marigold would…complement all of this?”
Heather brushed her lips against Magda’s cheek. “Of course it would. The moon needs her sun, just as the sun needs her moon,” she cryptically responded.
Heather’s whisper about moon and sun lodged itself in her chest, unsettling and undeniable. For all her years of casting herself as the distant moon, aloof, reflective, content to orbit, she had never admitted how lonely that orbit was. Heather was the sun, spilling warmth into every cold corner, flooding her shadows with light, and Magda realized with a pang that she no longer wanted to be alone as she hung in the sky. She wanted to spend her days and nights chasing after the warmth that Heather brought.
“Can you see it?” Heather asked. She held the paint card up against the dark wall and patiently waited for Magda’s response.
Silence stretched. Then Magda’s hand covered hers, long fingers curling around Heather’s wrist. “I do,” she admitted. She saw it as clear as day, their favourite colours side by side, just as they lay next to one another in their bed each night.
Heather tilted her head back against Magda’s shoulder, eyes closing briefly. “I must warn you, I am rubbish with a paintbrush,” she giggled.
Magda exhaled slowly, as if letting go of something tightly held. She pressed a kiss to Heather’s hair. “Now you tell me?” she softly complained. But her words held no real bite.
“I promise that I will hold you steady on the ladder.”
“Hmmm,” Magda pretended to contemplate the proposed trade.
“I will also facilitate the preparations and clean-up after we paint. And, I’ll massage your sore shoulders after.”
“Tempting. Go on,” Magda drawled.
Heather laughed, soft and disbelieving. She nibbled at the dip in Magda’s chin. “I’ll massage you all over. Anywhere you’re sore, or just needing some attention,” she sweetly offered.
Magda’s eyes glinted from behind her lenses. “How could I possibly turn down such an offer?”
Heather’s smile deepened, soft but triumphant. “You couldn’t. Not really. You never do.”
Magda arched a brow, adjusting her glasses with haughtiness. “Never? I recall declining a hike you proposed in the pouring rain last month.”
Heather gave a quiet laugh, tilting her head so her temple brushed Magda’s jaw. “Only because you were worried I’d catch cold. That doesn’t count.”
Magda’s lips curved, a rare and unguarded smile. “So my refusals are valid only when they protect you?”
“Yes. That’s how I know you love me.”
For a moment, the air between them stilled. Magda let out a slow breath, her forehead tipping briefly against Heather’s hair. “Perhaps I am far more obvious than I wish to be,” she murmured.
Heather turned her head just enough to meet her eyes, blue catching on brown. “Only to me,” she whispered.
Magda gave a soft huff of laughter at that, but her hand lingered warmly over Heather’s, grounding the moment. “I can live with that.”
Heather’s answering grin was luminous, but she tempered it with a teasing lilt. “Careful, Magda. If you concede too much, people will start thinking you’re domesticated.”
Magda’s gaze flicked to her with a glint that was equal parts mock severity and tenderness. “Let them think what they will,” she murmured against Heather’s lips.
***
The piglet squealed when Heather set him down, his little hooves scrambling against the grass before he flopped onto his side, content to root in the earth with his snub nose. His ears twitched like a wind vane.
“Truffles,” Heather said, crouching beside him. “You sweet little darling. Do you like the grass?” she asked in her sweetest voice.
Magda stood a few feet away, arms crossed, glasses perched low on her nose. She looked like she was interrogating an enemy combatant, not surveying a piglet scarcely larger than a loaf of bread.
“He will need a proper shelter,” Magda said. “Sturdy walls. A roof. Perhaps reinforced against predators.”
Heather hid a smile, stroking the piglet’s coarse fur. “He’s not a fortress, Magda. He’s just a baby.”
Magda’s brow furrowed, as though the word baby was foreign on her tongue. “He will grow. Quickly.”
“Exactly,” Heather said, rising. She brushed the dirt from her knees and gestured toward the patch of ground they’d chosen. “So the shelter should be low, warm, and insulated with straw. And it should face east, so the morning sun reaches him.”
“The devils -”
“We’ll ensure that it is suitably fortified against any unwelcome visitors as well,” Heather added.
Magda tilted her head, clearly resisting the urge to argue. Heather saw the calculation in her eyes, the way she always weighed control against trust. It was nearly comical, watching a woman who had commanded operatives across continents try to reason with a creature that weighed barely ten pounds.
“Explain,” Magda said at last, her voice clipped but curious. “Why east?”
Heather’s smile widened. “Because mornings are coldest. The sun will warm the straw sooner if it streams right in. He’ll wake comfortable instead of shivering.”
Magda glanced at the piglet, who was now happily chewing a blade of grass as if he understood. “And the walls?”
“Timber frame,” Heather replied. “Packed with straw bales for insulation. A hinged roof so we can open it to clean. And the floor raised just a little, so water won’t pool underneath.”
Magda’s brows lifted. “You have considered this thoroughly.”
“I’ve read quite a lot of material,” Heather said lightly. She softened her tone, stepping closer. “It’s not so different from raising anything small and helpless. Keep him safe, keep him warm, give him room to sleep and play.”
Magda’s eyes searched hers, and though her expression was serious, there was something unguarded beneath it. “And you are certain that we can do this?”
Heather smiled at her lover. Bright and hopeful. “I am certain that we can do anything,” she softly responded.
“I defer to your expertise,” Magda said at last, though the words came out clipped, as though they pained her.
Heather’s heart softened. She reached out, sliding her hand down Magda’s sleeve until their fingers laced. “Did you just admit that I know better than you?” she teased.
Magda sniffed. “In this matter, yes.”
Heather laughed, warm and unrestrained, and leaned her head against Magda’s shoulder. The piglet squealed again, nosing the hem of Heather’s jeans. She bent to scoop him up, cradling him like an infant, his little heart thudding fast against her palm.
Magda’s voice softened, almost against her will. “Raised floors. Hinged roof. East-facing wall.”
Heather blinked, realizing with a rush that Magda was repeating it back, memorizing, the way she might with field instructions. “Exactly,” Heather whispered. “You’ll see, it will be good for him.”
Magda watched, and Heather could feel it, the sharp edges in her softening, the realization in her gaze. She saw it land; Heather carried this ease in her bones, this instinct to nurture, where Magda faltered. And instead of resisting, Magda was choosing to step back. To follow Heather’s lead.
What Heather couldn’t see, though, was how Magda’s mind wandered as she stood there, hands folded behind her back. The way Heather held the piglet, so careful and so protective, her thumb stroking the soft place behind his ear, looked so much like the way a mother would hold a child. They seldom spoke of Charlotte, to Magda’s shame, this had more to do with her inability to meet Heather in the depths of her maternal grief, than Heather’s need to speak about her.
She was still working on that.
She knew that Heather thought of her daily. And she wondered if this small act, this practice of mothering something helpless, brought Heather solace. Did it ease the gnawing grief she carried, quiet the ache of distance from her daughter? Or did it sharpen it, like a reminder of what she had lost?
She hoped that it was the former. That was why she’d agreed to adopt Truffles in the first place.
Magda saw Heather’s eyes soften as Truffles calmed in her arms, saw the peace that crossed her face, and thought, perhaps this could be a kind of healing. A chance to give again, to love without reservation, to have a precious newborn, even if it was a piglet, press their tiny weight into her chest and trust her entirely.
Heather pressed a kiss to the piglet’s wrinkled forehead, then glanced up at her. “You’re not disappointed?” she asked softly. “Letting me take the lead?”
Magda shook her head. For once, no clever metaphor, no shield of wit. Just a quiet, firm, “no.”
And Heather believed her.
***
Melbourne had its own rhythm. A city of trams rattling, footpaths alive with chatter, the scent of coffee heavy as rain. Their apartment sat above a narrow street lined with jacarandas, the branches purple in spring, delicate blossoms pooling on the pavement. Heather loved the noise of it, after so many years of silence in Mystery Bay.
Magda tolerated it, though Heather caught her sometimes with her jaw set, as if holding back complaint. Still, she never said a word against the move. It had been for Heather, so that she could be closer to Charlotte.
She was twenty-five now. A young woman with ambitions and plans all her own, no longer the adventurous, sweet little girl that Heather had left behind. Their reunion had been tender and astonishing, a second chance which Heather hadn’t believed she’d ever get to have. They moved carefully together through their reunion. Twenty-one years was a devastating distance to breach. They did so in the acts of coffees shared in little cafes, long walks through the gardens, evenings when they lingered over wine and stories, letting years of absence untangle slowly, thread by thread. Heather was learning how to be a mother to a child raised by another. Charlotte was learning to forgive the absence that she’d felt so keenly all her life. And though their bond was fragile, Charlotte was as optimistic and open as her mother. She was delighted to weave Heather back into the fabric of her life.
Magda never joined them. She’d stay home, or walk the river, or vanish into the State Library for hours. It was unspoken; this was Heather’s private reckoning, hers alone to bear.
So when, one evening, as they cleared dishes from the table, Magda voiced, almost too casually, her desire to join Heather, her lover froze.
Heather turned to face, dish towel slack in her hand. “I beg your pardon?”
Magda straightened a glass on the counter, aligning it with unnecessary precision. “I said, I would like to meet her. To spend some time with Charlotte. That is, if she is agreeable…to meeting with me?”
The words echoed. Heather’s first instinct was disbelief, her mind supplying all the years of Magda’s disdain for children, her insistence that they complicated, distracted, and drained. She had never softened her stance. Not once. And yet here she was, looking at Heather with that measured, vulnerable intensity that came only when she meant every word.
Heather’s throat tightened. “You… want to?” she asked, her voice uneven.
Magda slid her lenses up the bridge of her nose. “I have been unsupportive of your relationship with her,” she said. And her words offered accountability without excuses. She stepped closer, taking the towel from Heather’s hands, folding it neatly before setting it aside.
“We moved, you were quite supportive of that. Despite your preference for the country,” Heather pointed out.
Magda drummed her fingernails on the counter. “It was the least I could agree to. I have never been tied to any particular place in this world, you know that. I would have lived in any town or city for you,” she quietly stated. A thought occurred to her. She forced herself to meet Heather’s eyes. “Unless of course, you would prefer that I…that we remain separate. Charlotte and I.”
Heather’s eyes immediately softened. She placed a hand over Magda’s fidgeting fingers.
“I…,” Magda’s nose twitched, “...I’m not very good at this,” she admitted.
“You’re off to a good start,” Heather countered.
“I’ve not been the most supportive. Ah, no. This is not up for debate,” she added as Heather’s lips parted. “Motherhood is inextricably linked to you. And I have not made space for that part of you. I regret my selfishness. I would like…to atone.” Magda’s dark brown eyes seemed to pout at Heather. “I would very much enjoy getting to know her. Perhaps joining you when you meet with her? She is important to you. Which means that she is important to me.”
“She’ll like that,” Heather whispered, heart swelling. “She’s asked about you, you know.”
“Really?” Magda asked in a small voice. “She…she is aware that…” That I exist. That I adore her mother. That I would follow you to the end of the world. That I am nothing without you and your love.
“Of course. I told her about you immediately.”
“And how did she…?”
“We’ve stepped back into a much more progressive world. She’s quite thrilled to know that I am happy. And that you are the one who makes me happy.”
“Do I? Still? After all these years?”
Heather cupped Magda’s cheek. Her thumb soothed the tension in her lover’s jaw. “You, my darling, have filled my life with devotion and care. You are far from perfect, but so am I. What you are, who you will always be, is the love of my life. So yes, I would very much like for you to meet my daughter.”
“Perhaps we could have her here for dinner? I could bake eggplant parmesan. She is a vegetarian as well, yes?” Magda asked, knowing that the apple had not fallen far from its mothering tree.
“That would be wonderful.”
“Good.” Magda nodded. She turned her head and pressed her lips to the palm of Heather’s hand. “Then let her know that she may visit us here whenever she likes. When she is ready, I want her to see that I am here. That she is not alone in loving you.”
Heather’s eyes stung. She blinked hard, trying not to dissolve, but the tears spilled anyway, warm and hot against Magda’s thumb as Magda raised a hand to clear them. She pressed her forehead to Magda’s, breathing her in. She wrapped her arms around Magda and held on tight, heart pounding.
Outside, a tram rattled down the street, bells chiming, life continuing. Inside, Heather thought, her life had just cracked open a little wider thanks to the space that Magda had made for her.