Chapter 13
The Truth of Wesley
Her son, Wesley, unaware of his true parentage, suffers. He felt the pain of his mother's persecution, bullied for his loyalty.
The scent of drying herbs, a familiar balm, still clung to my skin, a gentle reminder of a life I’d once known, a life before the whispers turned to shouts, before the shadows of Spencer stretched long and suffocating across my path. Even now, miles and heartaches away, the memory of my little shop on Main Street, a sanctuary of tinctures and talismans, could bring a phantom warmth to my fingertips. But it was Wesley, my Wesley, who occupied the forefront of my mind, a constant ache in the hollows of my chest. He was so young, so innocent, yet he carried the weight of their malice, a burden he was never meant to bear.
He’d felt it, hadn’t he? The insidious coil of their lies, the cold tendrils of their hatred wrapping around him like a shroud. He was too young to understand the intricate tapestry of deceit they’d woven, too young to grasp the depths of their cruelty, but he felt the sting of it nonetheless. They’d painted me as something I was not, a monster in their twisted narratives, and he, my loyal, brave boy, had borne the brunt of their venom. I saw it in the way he’d flinch at harsh words, the way his bright eyes would cloud over with an unearned sadness. He’d felt the ostracization, the whispers that followed him like a persistent echo, the sidelong glances that spoke volumes of their judgment.
“He’s got her eyes,” I’d overheard Mrs. Starcher hiss once, her voice laced with a venom that could curdle milk. “That wild, untamed look. It’s a shame, really. Such a sweet boy, but he’s got her mark on him.” Her mark. As