Achillea Millefolium, or Yarrow as it's more commonly known, is a herb plant that was first used by ancient Greeks over three thousand years ago.

As I walk through the overgrown meadow, I pluck the head of a yarrow bloom—said to heal external lacerations—and I wonder if it could heal the one deep inside me that has cracked, cleaved and torn through my heart.

My father wants me to go and spend the weekend with them. He didn’t try to coerce Rhys, but he had no qualms about making me go.

Where Rhys and I are both dark with Mum's blue eyes, Dad is tall and broad with strawberry blonde hair, and he has freckles across his nose that I loved to count when I was smaller. I even gave some of the bigger ones names—George, Rosie, Peter. I look nothing like him.

I watch in silence as he begins to carefully pack my clothes and place them in my small suitcase. It was a gift from them both this last Christmas and matches the floral satchel I use for school.

I'm not fooled by how unaffected he appears to be. Since she left, everything feels different. Even him.

Mum's gone, has been for three weeks, and he doesn't need to pretend with me.

I tell all this to the flowers clutched tightly in my fist, and the yarrow listens.

Rhys was right, there are defined sides in this family breakup that feels more like a war, and I want to be given the chance to pick my team. I pick Dad. I don’t want to go over there, not alone.

"It's not that cut and dried, Flower," Dad says simply as he focuses on folding my jeans and placing them at the bottom of the case. "Things weren't working between us and hadn't been for a long time." His smile is far too big for his face. It stretches all the way up to his freckles. It's fake, and it hurts my chest.

"Your mother misses you both. She’s hurting about all this too. Don’t hurt her further just because you can. That isn’t you, Flower."

I snort, sounding more like my brother than myself, "It's only been a few weeks. She used to go away to work for longer than this before."

He chooses to ignore my jibe, his hands barely slowing at my words. "She's called you every day since she left, and neither of you will talk to her. Think about that, Flower. Think about her needing to talk to you and neither of you letting her."

"She is responsible for all this. Not me, not Rhys, not any of us. It’s all on her."

I use Rhys’ argument, his words falling rote from my lips, and they taste ashen on my tongue. I wish I could take them back, but they are out there now, between us. This is why I’d rather say these things to my flowers.

Dad laughs, not with humour but with weariness. "We chose to do this, Flower. It wasn’t your Mum alone. It was a joint decision, and when you say stuff like that you just sound like your stubborn brother. You’re better than that."

"Have you met him?" I've heard his name, but I don't want to say it. Max. Plus, referring to him as some random man makes me feel like I’m solidifying my loyalty to my father. I won’t accept him. I won’t.

He pauses with the packing and fiddles with the zips of my suitcase.

"Yeah," he eventually answers but doesn’t look at me. "I knew Max. We went to school together. I met your mother for the first time over his house. They used to be neighbours... and friends."

He continues to pack my stuff, likely because he knows I won’t willingly do it myself, and I watch as he carefully places my newest scrapbook, filled with my pressed flowers, between my piles of clothes. He lays it there reverently as if he knows the secrets it carries.

My secrets.

My confessions.

"I'll try, Dad," I whisper. “For you, I’ll try.”

He smiles at me then. It isn’t his usual easy grin, and his eyes don’t crinkle at the sides. "Everything will be okay. I promise."

We’re silent for the short journey to Mum’s new house. Neither of us knowing what to say.

It’s weird to know she was never very far away all those times she was ‘working’. I always thought she went from our small village in Wales to a big city in England on the weeks she went to work, but her new place—where she's been leading another life for years—is just a few miles down the road.

"How long has it been going on?" I asked that day—the day she left us. Dad had come back composed and ready to explain, while Mum had left quietly in the face of Rhys’ anger. He didn't answer. Despite assuring us we could ask anything, there were still things he was prepared to hide. I lost it then and screamed at him, "I want to know how long! If this is the end, stop lying to us."

"I don't want to go," I whine as Dad pulls up outside Mum's new house. “Can we go back home?”

It's fancy, and nothing like our small and modest terrace. It doesn't scream home or warmth. It boldly yells, ‘Look at us. This is why she left you. Look at what we can give her. So much more than you.'

It has a perfect, pristine lawn that glimmers in the morning light like precious stones. Like Emeralds. Compared to the wilderness of long grass and overflowing flowers in front of ours, this place looks like a palace.

The size, the perfect gardens, the grandeur, the wealth.

I understand why my father doesn't offer to walk me in. Seeing this place must be akin to rubbing salt on a mouth ulcer—Rhys made me do that once, said it would make it disappear, but he never said how much it would hurt.

I slouch down in my seat.

"Take me home," I say again, but this time it’s more like a plea as I begin fiddling with the hem of my shirt. "I don't want to go on my own. Please don’t make me do this on my own."

"You’re not alone, Flower. Your mum is inside waiting for you." He white-knuckles the steering wheel like he's all but ready to give in and pull me into a hug. Dad can never usually say no to me. Mum used to say I had him wrapped around my little finger from the day I was born. But not today. Today I can’t bat my big blue eyes and bend him to my will because he's relying on me to be the one to break the standoff between our two houses. Two families. I am the sacrificial lamb—the olive branch. It’s all a matter of perception, I guess.

Why can’t I just be Flower?

My belly churns and dips like I’m riding a rollercoaster, and my legs are unsteady—it’s that feeling you get when the safety bar raises and everyone is looking at you to get off, but you don’t think you can.

I swallow thickly, and rub my clammy palms over my new skirt before tugging the handle of the small suitcase between my feet.

It's only for the weekend, I tell myself, just two days. I can do two days. And as if he knows what I'm thinking my Dad says, "I’ll come and pick you up Sunday night. I won’t be late, I promise."

I fling myself across the centre console and hug him as hard as I can. It's awkward, and he doesn't hug me back—as if he can’t because he might not let go—but he tells me he loves me, whispering it into my hair as his hands squeeze the steering wheel until it creaks. I pull back and look at his tight smile.

“You’ve got this, Flower. You amaze me. You always have and always will.”

I open the door, and the sticky smell of sweet roses washes over me. Dad doesn’t say any more and I can’t bring myself to look at him, or else I’ll never do it. Do this. Visit them.

I slam the door shut behind me and Dad pulls slowly away, taking with him my escape. Maybe that’s why he’s doesn’t wait, to give me no option, or maybe he doesn’t want to see them either.

I walk over their pristine lawn, dragging my case behind me, despite there being a path being less than an inch to my right. I want to stand on every blade of grass, flatten it into the mud, and make it less perfect. I want to ruin their flawless life because mine isn't complete anymore.

And it's not right.

And it's not fair.

I thought we were perfect.

I thought we were solid. A unit. A family.

I ditch my suitcase in front of the double oak door and knock. The sound deep and foreboding, like the clanging of a church bell.

No one answers, so I peer into the empty but impressive hallway and leave the smudge of my palm prints on the sparkly clean glass. A giggle comes from somewhere outside, the breeze bringing it to my ears. It's familiar. It's my mother's laugh, and it's coming from around the back of the house.

She should be waiting at the door to welcome me, not laughing without care somewhere else.

With another family.

To the side of the doors is a large, green glazed, ceramic pot filled with earth—like someone has got it ready to plant something and not finished the job. I look from the dirt to the glass panes on either side of the oak doors, and with anger in my heart, I cover both my hands with the damp mud before spreading it all over the narrow windows. It's not like me to get mad, but if I can't hurt her directly, I want to hurt her new life. I want to dirty up all their perfection and be the stain they can’t remove.

After a few minutes, I still. My breaths saw from my chest, each one burning with shame and guilt, and when I look at the mess I’ve made, I feel stupid.

My dirty hands grab the handle of my suitcase and drag it around the corner of the house. Her familiar voice echoes across the warm morning air, and once I reach the back garden, I stand to the side using a tall bush as a shield, and I spy.

She's stood on a huge green lawn, watching a boy as he plays with a rugby ball. Occasionally, she calls to him and he passes her the ball before running long for her to throw back. He's bigger than I am, and fairer, with white blonde hair cut short and styled neatly. He’s wearing a Welsh rugby jersey, shorts, and a pair of trainers that, only weeks ago, Rhys had begged to have, stating “All the boys in school have them. I look like the odd one out.”

The boy with the cool trainers darts forward to grab the ball and catches it effortlessly, diving to the ground to mimic scoring a try. Mum laughs as he stands and takes a bow, and her enthusiastic applause clatters through the air and hurts my ears. This is something they do a lot. It's too flawless, too comfortable. Too perfect—like their house.

With a beaming grin, Mum picks up the discarded ball and praises the boy for his skill. The boy chuckles, basking in her approval and their game continues. Back and fore they throw until she fumbles and the ball falls out of her hands.

"You're good at this, Mum, but not as good as Dad."

Bile bubbles in my belly, and rises up my throat, burning my tongue and the back of my nose.

The sweet smell of the roses is now cloying. I feel nauseous.

He called her Mum.

She’s not your mum.

My eyes lock on my mother and I watch and wait. She’ll tell him. She has to. She’ll tell this blond-haired boy with the trainers my brother wants that he shouldn't say that. He shouldn't call her Mum, her name is Jenny.

Blink.

Breathe.

Wait.

Blink.

Breathe.

Wait.

My eyes burn, my vision blurring until everything around me contorts. Hot, angry tears threaten to spill over my lashes, and I don’t blink, unable to set the free.

I need them. I need this anger.

How dare she let him call her that. She’s mine. Not his.

Rage fills me, bloating me to the point of bursting, and I stare at her treasonous face—with its big smile that crinkles the corners of her eyes.

I must move or flinch because something gives away my presence and the boy locks his gaze one mine. I feel his eyes on me like an army of ants that have come upon a rotting leaf, and I glare back.

He's tall, slim, and almost lanky. Like Rhys, and most teen boys their age, he hasn’t grown into his body yet.

His lips curl into a grin, and I narrow my eyes. He's smug. The confident kind of arrogant that wins everything, gets picked for every team, and has kids begging to be his friend. And he’s looking at me like he's won again, but I didn't even know the rules of the game we were playing. He’s had a head start. He’s one-upped me.

Do not pass Go and do not collect two hundred dollars.

Mum turns to see what has caught the boy’s attention. Her eyes scanning the periphery before falling on my face. She looks suddenly anxious, and she quickly glances from the blond boy to me and back again.

A sudden breeze ruffles through the bush I stand behind, making each leaf shake. I feel like one of those leaves. I'm just waiting to fall. To be swept away on the wind and discarded somewhere alone.

I stare back at her and say nothing, waiting for her to make the first move.

The boy moves closer, close enough for me to see the colour of his eyes. They are the same green as the perfectly manicured grass at the front of the house. Emerald.

Rich, expensive Emeralds.

"Fflur," Mum says elatedly. "We didn't expect you yet. I thought your Dad said he was dropping you off after lunch."

I continue to scowl at the blond boy, who seems unaffected by my fury, and his grin grows bigger and bigger until it stretches wide across his tanned face.

"I'm Galen," he says, his cocky smirk even bigger, if possible, than before.

Galen. Rhys would say that’s a shitty name, and I try to channel my big brother, but despite my anger, it suits him. He wears it well. But I still don’t like him. Galen.

Tears scald my eyes, and I refuse to let them fall. My head feels too heavy for my neck and it drops under the weight of my hate. I stare at the grass under my feet, wanting to dig my heels into the dirt and make a mess. Wanting to ruin something perfect because why should she have something nice. Why should Galen?

I use this hate, and let it make me stronger. Strong enough to straighten my shoulders and walk towards the discarded rugby ball. Mum smiles thinking I want to join in with them after all. I pick it up, the weight heavy in my small hands. The unforgiving leather hard against my fingertips.

Galen cocks his head to one side, believing someone as small and fragile looking as me couldn't possibly be able to throw this ball at him. What he doesn't realise is that Rhys breathes, lives, and loves rugby. He's made me practice with him so many times, that I can just about hit anything. I settle my shoulders, straighten my legs, and widen my stance, and I launch the ball directly at his smug, conceited, loves himself, grinning face.

He goes down with a muffled curse, both hands cupping his mouth and nose. He glares at me from the ground, his eyes fierce and even greener than before. When he stands, and pulls his hands away to check them, I smile to myself at the blood dribbling from the corner of his mouth.

“Nice throw,” he says, as he pulls up the corner of his shirt to wipe it away, but it comes out more like a sneer.

I want to give myself a pat on the back—Rhys would if he was here—but the fire in his bright emerald eyes is a threat. They warn of payback and retribution. No, that’s wrong. The glint in his eyes isn’t a threat, it’s a promise.

I take a step forward, the word sorry on the tip of my tongue, just one breath from breaking free. I wish I hadn't done it. Maybe.

He stares at me with glacial green eyes. His cockiness is gone and replaced with something cold and conniving.

Mum shouts at me, but there's no weight behind it. She knows this is out of character for me. She might expect it of hot-headed Rhys, but not Flower—meek, shy, quiet, weird and a little bit quirky, Flower. She pities me. It’s written all over her pretty face. A face I once knew as well as my own, but now looks at me like a stranger.

I stare at my new shoes, fascinated by how they shine against the emerald green grass, and I ignore the dirty clumps of mud that stick around the edges. Evidence of my desire to ruin everything that they have.

Galen wipes his mouth again, and when he finally speaks, his words make me wince. "Well, Mum," he says, injecting enough swagger into his voice to seem unaffected. "She’s not the little sister I expected, but I guess I’ll keep her."

Mum smiles, but it’s slightly wary. Her eyes check me over, finally landing on my muddy hands.

“Have you hurt yourself, did you fall over?” she asks, rushing towards me.

I slide my dirty hands into the pockets of my jacket and confess, “No, I didn’t fall. I was pushed.”

Their kitchen is sleek and modern, all stainless steel and marble counters—nothing like the one we have at home. It also has a laundry room off the side, and it’s where I stand now, washing my hands in the sink, scrubbing away the evidence of my anger.

Galen walks in with a wash cloth and shoulders his way to the sink, pushing me off to the side with a mumbled, “Bitch.”

"Wanker," I toss back, not even trying to be discreet. I hope Mum hears me. I want her to hear me.

And she does.

She walks through the open doorway and gives me a look. It’s filled with sadness and confusion.

I’m not the girl who acts out. I’m not the girl who calls other’s names. This isn’t me.

Mum takes my hands. The cold water on my skin a direct contrast to the warmth of her hands on mine.

"This is not how I wanted your first visit to go."

I snort, and she gives look of warning, one that I’ve seen Rhys on the receiving end of, but never me.

“I hoped you two could get along. After all, it’s a new beginning for both of you.”

"Beginning? Nothing is beginning, everything has ended."

Mum looks at me with a sad smile. "Our new family is beginning, Fflur, whether you’re ready for it or not." She goes on and on, but I tune her out. I can’t listen to her. It hurts too much. And I can feel him, Galen, watching the entire scene.

“Did you hear me? Are you listening to anything I’ve said?” she asks, noticing my inattention.

"Yes,” I hiss. “I heard you, but it changes nothing. Nothing.” The declaration vomits from my lips, and this time I take ownership of the words. They're not Rhys’—they're mine.

"You lied to us for almost seven years." My voice cracks along with my heart and I’m not sure which sound is the harshest. "How could you do that? How could you think we would just be okay with it all? I know I’m just a kid, I’m not supposed to have any say in this stuff, but you’ve ruined my life and I will never, ever forgive you."

The tears flow and my mother’s face blurs, but I straighten my shoulders and I own every syllable when I say, “I hate your house. I hate your garden. I hate you. I hate you for all of it.”

I harshly push away her hands, and turn away from them both, my fight or flight instincts leaning heavily towards flight, and I run. My blood pumps furiously beneath my skin, my heart barely keeping up. It pleads with me to hurt them like they’ve hurt me. To break something like I'm broken, but I can't because she's my mum. Because I want her to love me again. I want us to be enough for her, and for her to say that she got it wrong and she's coming home.

I want her to say out loud that me and Rhys are as good, no, we’re better than this place, than Galen and his father. The truth is, though, if we were, she would never have left us in the first place.

And she wouldn't be pregnant.

And she wouldn't be letting him call her Mum.

I run outside, grab my suitcase and storm across the emerald green lawn to the street. I don’t have any money, so I walk, and while I do, I search the pavement for cracks. Sometimes flowers grow in cracks. Some people call them weeds. I don't. They’re the strong ones. The resilient ones. The ones who survive anything. And I need a strong flower, a warrior flower to help me right now.

A garden full of blooms appears on my left. Someone takes pride in these flowers. They care for them. Love them, even.

I never usually take flowers from other people. I choose wildflowers, ones anyone can pick, but I need a flower now. I need to unburden. I need to unload. And I need to not be judged because some of the thoughts in my head aren't good ones.

A single rose calls to me. It's red—the colour of blood—and it seems appropriate. Right now, I feel like all my blood is pooling at my feet and draining away into the ground. I feel empty, a husk.

I snatch the rose, snapping it off at the stem, and grip it tightly in my hand. A thorn pricks my skin at the tip of my thumb, and the spot wells and blooms, the same colour as the rose's petals. I centre myself on the sharp sting of pain. It hurts less than the pain in my chest.

I want her to run after me, to pull me into a hug and tell me this is all a big joke. She’s sure to come for me.

Mum goes away sometimes, but she always comes back.

A hand lands on shoulder, stopping me from taking my next step. I spin around, ready to beg her, ready to plead with her to make it all better.

Ready to forgive.

My heart flutters and I forget about the blood red rose and my need for the flower. I almost drop it to the concrete at my feet.

But, it's not her.

It's not Mum.

It's Galen.

I lift my head to look at him. Deep lines bisect his brow, and his green eyes squint in the sun. He loosens his grip on my shoulder, but he doesn't remove his hold, so with a quick movement I shake him off and he takes a small step back.

His voice is soft, barely a whisper when he says, "I know it’s hard right now. I know this situation is shit, and I mean really fucking shit. But I've always wanted to get to know you. I was always curious about you."

I grip the rose tighter, and the thorn makes a fresh wound in the fleshy skin between my thumb and finger.

He's always wanted to know me.

"How did you know about us, but we never knew about you?"

Galen takes the suitcase handle from my hand.

"Come back with me," he says gently. His emerald eyes stare at the rose in my hand, and a trickle of blood runs from my thumb towards my wrist. I push the thorn deeper, needing the hurt.

"Come back to the house, not for Mum, for you. You’ll get more answers that way, and you deserve them all. You should know the truth."

He called her Mum again.

I’m never going back.

I stare at him for barely a beat before I spin on my feet and run.

Away from this house.

Away from this perfect lawn.

Away from the boy who thinks he can take my mother for his own.

I don't care that I’ve left my stuff behind, he can have it. I'll be fine without it. I don’t need the clothes inside; I don’t even care about my precious scrapbook full of flowers. I'll get more. Over my shoulder, I call out, "I'm never coming back here. You can tell her that if you want. Or don’t. I don’t care either way.”

I hate her.

I hate you all.