Are You My Mother Book Pages Novels & Stories

“We need to see what it was going to say. It may be an answer to both of our problems right now, my mate.” “Your father isn’t going to let us get near the library ever again,” I huffed, leaned into his chest more as he held me. I refused to let him release me in fear he would shift and wreak havoc after what he did to my back. “Where could that last page be?” “It was written by my mother,” he said with a locked jaw. “She spent all of her time in that library. It has to be there.” “I’m exhausted right now,” I admitted. “Hold me for now. We can find our peace later.”

Several key pages had been roughly torn out near the back of the book, the jagged edges suggesting they’d been ripped away in a hurry years ago, and I knew my mother wouldn’t have done that to her own work. “Looking for a spell to turn us all into toads, or just trying to find a way to sneak out the back door?” Vaelor asked, his voice coming from the doorway and making me jump so hard I nearly knocked over the inkwell. He was leaning against the frame with his arms crossed, looking exhausted but still radiating that restless, aggressive energy that seemed to follow him everywhere he went. “I don’t think a toad would survive very long in this weather, and besides, I’m busy trying to figure ou

Feeling all horny and loose on the inside to have him inside me, that made me feel alive even when I hated myself for it. I tugged at the strap. The journal opened on my lap. The first page glared up at me, handwriting curling across it—hers. Jessica’s. My mother. My throat closed so hard I thought I would choke. My lips parted, and before I even realized it, I whispered, “Mom…” The word cracked something in me, like glass shattering in my chest. I almost slammed the book shut, but my hands wouldn’t obey. I was already turning the pages, my eyes feeling a stung just beneath as I tried to follow the slant of her handwriting, every curve of the letters familiar and foreign at the same time.

My Mother's Journal. I paused, wondering when last I read it. Although it was just a tiny old book, I was never able to complete reading it. It was like the pages were changing with new stories day by day. I carefully slid it out before trailing to my desk holding a lit candle. Making it the only illumination in the room. The way I liked it. I ran my fingers slowly around the brown book cover for minutes before finally opening its contents. "Rose," I read in my mind. I heaved a sigh, already certain I was going to have another emotional ride.

The healing spells, the poison antidotes, the basics. However, there are sections I haven’t touched yet, and those sections are pages towards the back that I have been avoiding because the handwriting gets darker and more frantic there as if she was writing faster than she could think. ‎ But now, I think it’s time to visit those sections. If Liam’s aunt is targeting me, then I need my mother’s wisdom and everything else that can be of help to me. ‎Summoning the courage, I find myself flipping to one of those pages towards the back of the journal.

You should have known better mom. I shook my head and sighed, flipping towards the center of the book. "Xerxes this, Xerxes that…yadda, yadda, yah–," I sang, skipping page after page until I found something interesting. It was a page that was not written in my mother's handwriting. "There is something wrong with me," I read aloud yet my voice was a terrified whisper. I shifted my back against the side of the bed and adjusted my legs.

“Then I’ll remind you. I’ll stay by your side—even if you forget who you are, even if you change. I’ll find you, Lena. Every time.” Tears blurred my vision, but I blinked them away. I had cried enough. I had doubted enough. It was time. I pressed the ancient book—the one my mother had given me—to my chest. The runes on the cover flared to life at my touch, reading my blood, my soul, my truth. The tent rippled. The ground shook. The sanctuary itself responded. “What’s she doing?” Barin demanded, half to Maxwell, half to no one. “She’s accepting it,” my mother said, voice shaking.

⸻ 🌙 The Lost Pages The book slowly opened. 📖 ⸻ Its pages fluttered wildly. ⸻ Most were empty. ⸻ Destroyed. ⸻ Gone forever. ⸻ Yet one page remained intact. ⸻ One final page. ⸻ One hidden page. ⸻ A page nobody had ever seen before. ⸻ The page that existed before Memory Zero. ⸻ 😨 ⸻ 🌙 Before The First Question The page glowed softly. ✨ ⸻

"You just don't know it yet." I turned back to the book. Page after page. Illustration after illustration. Wolves and moons and bloodlines stretching back centuries. And then— Another photograph. Tucked in the back, hidden between the last page and the cover. I pulled it out. This one was newer. The colors were brighter. The edges weren't yellowed. It showed a woman standing in front of a small house. A woman with dark hair and dark eyes and a tired smile. My mother. Older now. Weary. But alive.

The missing page. It was just sitting there. Neat. Centered. As if placed with care. I felt my hands tremble as I approached. The air felt colder here, as if someone had just been in the room. My heartbeat stuttered as I looked down at it. Someone had broken in. Someone had found the missing page. Someone had read it. And someone wanted me to read it too. My mouth went dry. In the top corner, in my mother’s handwriting, were five chilling words: