My Sister Stole My Mate And I Let Her (Seraphina) novel Chapter 286

Chapter 286: Chapter 286 MARGARET LOCKWOOD’S DIARY

SERAPHINA’S POV

The house was too quiet after Ethan left.

It was not the gentle hush of morning, but a strange, ringing silence that pressed against my ears.

I lingered in the kitchen long after the door clicked shut, my gaze fixed on the empty chair where he had been. 𝒇𝒓𝙚𝒆𝔀𝓮𝓫𝒏𝓸𝙫𝓮𝓵.𝓬𝙤𝙢

Daniel’s footsteps echoed upstairs, the sound of running water drifting down, blissfully unaware of the storm that had just been set loose inside me.

My eyes drifted to the table where the diary lay.

Margaret Lockwood’s diary.

It seemed to carry more weight than a diary should, its thick leather cover and smoothed corners bearing the fingerprints of years.

When I lifted it, the spine creaked softly, as if the book itself braced for what was to come.

I carried the diary to the living room and sat, letting it rest on my knees, unopened.

I tried to prepare myself.

For anger. For manipulation. For cold justification written in careful, self-righteous prose.

But nothing could have prepared me for what I discovered.

The first entry was dated months before my birth.

My mother’s handwriting was neat and elegant, the strokes composed but not rigid.

‘Today I felt her move for the first time. It startled me—caught my breath entirely—but then I laughed, tears spilling down my cheeks. Edward thought something was wrong until I grabbed his hand and pressed it to my stomach. He cried, too. Oh, it was wonderful—the sensation of my baby girl and the sight of my Alpha, crying like a boy.’

A knot formed in my throat.

I turned the page.

‘She responds to music. When Edward hums—poorly, terribly—she kicks harder. I tell him it’s because she wants him to stop, but secretly I think she recognizes him.’

There were photographs tucked carefully between the pages.

My parents, before they were my parents.

Margaret, younger, softer. Her hand resting over a rounded belly, Edward beside her, one arm wrapped protectively around her shoulders. Little Ethan, a whole hand wrapped around our father’s finger.

Another photo—blurry and candid—of both of my parents laughing, foreheads pressed together.

I gazed at the photos, at the unmistakable love shimmering between them.

I turned more pages, absorbing my mother’s worries and hopes, the way she described imagining my face, my voice, my future.

She wrote about the names they debated—I was nearly an Adelaide—and the nursery Father insisted on painting, only to ruin it with crooked lines.

‘She’ll be strong,’ one entry read. ‘I can feel it. Not just in her wolf, but in her spirit.’

Page after page overflowed with joy, pride, anticipation, and a fierce, almost reverent love.

‘She arrived just before dawn,’ my mother wrote. ‘Angry. Loud. Perfect. Edward held her first because I was still too weak from the ordeal. She stopped crying the moment she heard him sing. She recognized his gods-awful voice.’

A photograph slid from between the pages, coming to rest in my lap.

There I was: a newborn, red-faced and furious, swallowed by a blanket much too large for my tiny body.

My father’s face hovered above mine, eyes wide and reverent, as if he’d been entrusted with something holy. My mother’s hand rested on his wrist, fingers curled tight.

Another entry followed.

‘She doesn’t sleep unless one of us is holding her. Edward says it’s because she wants to sleep knowing she’s loved. I hope she knows—whether we’re holding her or not—she will always, always be loved.’

More photos.

Me, at six months, perched in Mother’s lap, clutching a fluffy rabbit. Father crouched beside us, laughter caught mid-burst, unguarded.

Me, on my first birthday, frosting smeared across my cheeks, head thrown back in delight as Ethan stood nearby, frosting dotting his nose, cheeks flushed.

Me, at three, riding on Father’s shoulders, my small hands tangled in his hair, laughter suspended in a single, perfect moment.

Mother documented it all.

‘She has Edward’s stubbornness,’ one entry noted fondly. ‘And my temper. Goddess help us both.’

Another, written later:

‘She asked today why the moon follows her. Edward told her it’s because she’s special. Can’t wait till she learns basic Geography.’

I let out a breath that might have been a laugh or a sob.

The pages had thinned with use, corners bent, and ink smudged where Mother must have written too quickly, too distracted by life to be careful.

‘Sera tripped and skinned her knee today. You would think she cracked her skull wide open with the way Edward panicked.’

More photos appeared, fewer posed now, more candid.

Me, sprawled on the floor surrounded by building blocks, tongue caught between my teeth in concentration.

Me, asleep on a garden bench, blanket tucked around me, a tall shadow stretching across the grass, keeping watch.

Me, at five, standing proudly between them, a crooked paper crown on my head and a grin that showed too many teeth.

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