//------------------------------// // Late in the Evening // Story: Without Another Word // by Jack of a Few Trades //------------------------------// It looked almost exactly the same as the last time he’d seen it five years ago. The same old neon sign for Painted Pilsner beer was still on the wall by the door, the room still smelled faintly of tobacco smoke and sweat despite the fact that there wasn’t anyone else there, and the same old rust-red griffon was still there behind the bar. Gerry’s Pub hadn’t changed a bit. Grand Pear stepped into the bar room with a bit of hesitation in his step, but it didn’t take him long to make a beeline for the bar. Gerry was doing something to one of the taps, seemingly making some sort of repair to it, but he stopped as soon as he noticed Grand approaching. His face lit up. “Well I’ll be roasted in garlic and chives. Is it really you, Grandy boy?” he asked. Gerry was a large griffon, and his laugh had a considerable amount of bass to it, enough to drown out the dull roar of campy blues rock coming from the bar’s sound system. “Hey, Gerry,” said Grand, seating himself a chair down from where Gerry was standing. “It’s been a while, hasn’t it?” “Too damn long, if you ask me. The place hasn’t been the same without you here,” said Gerry. “Oh yeah, sure has changed,” said Grand, looking the bar over once more. “You resurfaced the pool table.” “And bought new cues,” Gerry added with a quick chuckle. “So, what’ll it be, Peary? The usual?” “You still remember that?” asked Grand. “Gin martini, wet and shaken on the rocks,” said Gerry, not missing a beat. “I think I’ll just have whiskey this time, Gerry. Thank you.” Gerry shrugged. “So be it. What flavor you lookin’ for?” “Jimmy. Nothing but the best,” said Grand. “I like the way you think. Rocks?” “Straight up.” Grand watched as Gerry went to work, setting down the shot glass and expertly pouring the whiskey from a considerable height without spilling a drop. In one smooth motion, he transferred the glass from the back counter to the bar and slid it down to Grand, landing it directly in front of him like it was nothing. Grand smirked. “Your aim has gotten better over the years.” “That’s what practicing does for you,” said Gerry. He returned to the tap he had been working on, taking a small wrench out of a toolbox on the floor behind the bar. “Tell me, back in the day, I don’t think you ever came in before dark. What’s got you here so early? Heck, for that matter, what’s got you back in here at all?” Grand didn’t answer right away, instead downing his entire shot in one go. It had been quite a while since he’d felt the familiar burn of hard liquor, and he grunted on reflex as the familiar warmth spread down into his stomach. “It’s a long story,” he said. “Look around, buddy. It’s half-past eleven. I got nothing but time.” “I’ll need another shot before I go down that road,” Grand said, sliding the glass back down to Gerry, where it clinked against the side of the tap. “Pay to play, huh?” Gerry asked, topping the glass off. “Always was like that.” He slid the glass back down to Grand. “Thanks,” said Grand. He downed the next shot, this time holding it in his mouth just a bit longer, savoring the smooth, faintly smoky and fruity taste. “Ah, I’ve missed that.” “Before you tell me, let me take a stab at it. Did your wife nag you back into my arms?” Gerry asked. Grand sighed. “No, not this time. Péra can be a bit much, but we’ve gotten over our differences lately. I’d say I’m about as happy with my marriage as I’ve ever been.” “Sheesh, sorry I asked,” said Gerry. “Most stallions that come wandering in here this early just had a fight with the missus. Can’t blame me for going with the usual excuse.” Grand Pear motioned for another shot, and he gulped it down as soon as it came his way. “I suppose not. But since you want to know, I’m here to forget something.” “Oh, it’s one of those. You sure you want to talk about it?” “I’ll be drunk as a skunk in no time. Might as well,” said Grand, taking another shot. His belly was burning with the alcohol, but he didn’t feel any different otherwise. Maybe he still had some of the tolerance he’d built up years ago. “I got a letter this morning from my old rival back in Ponyville. You remember the story I told you about how my daughter ran off with the old hag’s son, right?” “It rings a bell. What’s going on now? You got grandkids?” asked Gerry. Grand motioned for another drink, but Gerry shook his head. “Give it a bit, or you’ll be seeing what you drank again.” “Probably do have grandfoals now, but heck if I know. I cut her off the minute we left Ponyville, so if she sent me a letter about that, I wouldn’t have seen it.” “Aye, I remember the first time you came in. Seems like you said something about your daughter back then.” “Oh yeah, that’s what made me start coming here in the first place,” said Grand. A little bit of that old, familiar numbness that he craved was starting to take effect on the back of his mind, and he was noticing that it was a bit more difficult to get his train of thought going. Not that it mattered. Soon he’d be plastered, and that was what was important. “It hurt so bad to have to leave her behind like that. Heck, I nearly broke down and begged her to come back a few times, but I have—” he burped “—have to set an example. If my kids want to disrespect me like that, then they can’t be my kids.” “Mm, sometimes it takes an iron claw—er, hoof, to keep a family in line. I know how that is. My pop was a real sert göt, but it kept us out of trouble,” said Gerry. “I still hate his guts, and he’s been dead for fifteen years.” “That’s what I always liked about coming here. You get me, Gerry. You always did.” Grand licked his lips and tapped out a short beat on the bar with his hooves. “Like I said, it sucked having to be so hard on her, but it was setting an example. But anyway, that’s not why I’m here.” Grand paused to pound another shot down. “According to the letter I got today, my daughter died last week.” Grand Pear paused for a moment, expecting some sort of condolences from the old griffon, but he was only met by silence. Grand looked over to Gerry, who was visibly uncomfortable with the turn in the conversation. He didn’t say anything, simply returning to his work with the faulty tap in what he could only assume was an excuse to avoid eye contact. Not that it fazed Grand. He was going, and by Celestia, he was gonna keep going. “Yep, they sent me a letter saying that she’s already dead and buried. I mean, wouldn’t you believe it? Just gone like that.” Grand smacked his hooves together. “I sure don’t believe it.” “What do you mean?” asked Gerry. “I tried telling myself that the old Apple family wench was just yanking my chain. But there was proof! She sent me a program from the fu—from the funeral…” Grand lost the thought to the fuzz that was starting to overtake his mind, and he defaulted to a blank stare at the back wall. The conversation stopped for a few seconds before Gerry spoke up. “I really don’t know what to say, buddy. I’m used to getting ponies in here to talk about things like divorces or their lives being crappy. But this?” Gerry turned back to Grand. “This is some really heavy stuff. I ain’t a shrink, but do you think drinking is the best way to deal with this?” “It’s not,” said Grand. “It’s about the worst thing I could do right now.” He paused, looking down at the countertop and the group of empty shot glasses he’d just downed. When he focused on them, he could see just a little bit of blurring in his sight. Neither of them spoke again for several minutes. Gerry was focused on fixing the broken tap, and Grand just sat there, staring down at the bar, his head resting on his hooves. With every passing minute, he could feel himself detaching further and further from sobriety. It was what he’d come here for. Ever since he’d read the letter, he’d been craving to forget it. But now that it was here? He could see the faint, blurred reflection of himself in the glossy varnish on the counter, and every second he stared at it, he could feel that deep, empty space in his chest filled with something equally unpleasant: Disgust. Grand Pear took a deep breath and tore his gaze away from the counter. “Do you know why I stopped coming to the bar, Gerry?” “No,” said Gerry. “Didn’t really get a chance to. You just stopped showing one day, and that was it. Hadn’t heard from you since.” Grand swallowed the lump in his throat. “I stopped drinking because it was tearing my family apart. Things were hard after we came here, and I know that deep down, everypony blames me for what happened, but we were still a family until I started coming home drunk every night. After a while, my sons Anjou and Bartlett stopped talking to me unless they had to. Péra started sleeping in a different room from me, and things just kept getting worse from there.” “What made you quit?” asked Gerry. “I got wasted and gave Péra a black eye before I busted my head on the coffee table. Spent a few days in a coma, did some soul searching, and gave it up cold turkey.” Grand sighed and turned his gaze back down. “I promised Péra I’d never touch another drop of alcohol as long as I lived, and I meant it. But here I am. “I screwed up, Gerry.” Again, both pony and griffon were silent. Several minutes passed as Grand fought to maintain his composure. Even through the fog in his mind, he could feel the pain that the memories dragged up. Grand hadn’t been paying attention to what Gerry was doing, so he was surprised to see a set of talons reach in under him and grab the empty shot glasses. “I’ll take that as a sign that you’re done,” said Gerry. “Yeah. Let me get you the b-bits,” Grand said, digging around for some coins. “Don’t worry about it, buddy. You better get on home,” said Gerry. Even though his beak wasn’t the best tool for conveying emotion, Grand could tell that there was a smile in there somewhere. “I can handle my bill,” Grand said, his voice flat. He dropped five bits on the counter and hopped down from the barstool. “Take care of yourself, Gerry.” He walked to the exit and took one last glance around the bar room before he walked out the door. Years ago, Grand Pear had seen a documentary film about the yearly salmon run in the mountain streams near Vanhoover. Every summer, thousands upon thousands of salmon would swim from the ocean to spawning grounds deep in the mountains. In particular, he remembered one scene in the film that submerged the camera in the water just below a waterfall, running alongside hundreds of fish waiting anxiously to run the gauntlet, jumping up a short waterfall and past a line of bears waiting patiently to snag them out of the air. While there were no bears waiting that he was aware of, he couldn’t help but feel reminded of that scene as he sat on his cold metal bench, watching dozens of ponies rushing back and forth through the entrance to the Vanhoover train station. Their heads were down, eyes forward, pushing along on their way without much thought for the ponies around them. There were simply too many things on their minds to do any differently. That’s the difference between this place and Ponyville. Back there, everypony could take a little time to talk to each other. Grand grumbled to himself as he sat there, lamenting the hustle and bustle. At least it would be changing soon. It had been a few hours since he’d left Gerry’s, and he was feeling a good deal more sober now. In fact, he was feeling well enough that he was about ready to enact the next phase of the plan he’d concocted while wandering around town. He was going to go buy a train ticket for Ponyville. The free-standing, ornate clock in the middle of the large entryway chimed out three quarters of the hourly tone. Fifteen minutes until five, and from his experience with travel during his years as a salespony, he knew that the nightly train for Canterlot left just a little after five. If he was going to get on that train, he was going to have to go now. Grand slowly eased himself to his hooves, and the instant he stood up, his sight drained away to a potent headrush. He blinked hard, and after a few moments, his vision began to fade back in, little by little. He shook his head, clearing away the last bit of fog from his head, and doing so brought him a lot closer to losing his balance than he’d expected. Okay, maybe I’m not quite as sober as I thought. No matter, though. He was plenty experienced at faking sobriety. So long as he avoided letting anypony smell the liquor on his breath and walked a straight line, he’d be home free. After all, he had somewhere to be. One hoof in front of the other. That’s all there is to it. The first step was a bit shaky, but he found his stride in short order, and he began his walk across the main foyer to the ticket counter, joining the stream of ponies heading towards the sign that said “To Trains”, but with the intent of jumping into the trickle of ponies heading for the ticket counter. Most everypony else must have prepaid. Oh right, do I have enough on me for the ticket? Grand fought his way through the crowd to get out of the traffic flow, earning himself a number of dirty looks from the ponies he’d cut off. Not that it mattered. They were all focused on themselves, so he was focused on himself. He took out his coin purse and breathed a sigh of relief. He’d been meaning to pay some of the bills owed on the store, so he’d come well stocked with several hundred-bit coins. More than enough for a standard fare to Ponyville. He smiled to himself and started forward again, slowly making his way towards the window on the far side of the room. A few ponies were waiting ahead of him, but in his experience, ticket lines tended to move along fairly quickly. He’d have time left over to grab a bite to eat at the station’s restaurant before he got on the train. Heck, should have gone home and packed a bag first. Would have made things a lot easier. He was sorely lacking in any sort of supplies that he’d usually want for a long train ride, but there were stores for that. He could buy a small bag of toiletries and any other essentials at one of the shops along the corridor to the trains. His next step came in a bit too far inward, and he nearly stumbled. “Whoa,” he muttered to himself. Best to not get too far into thought while walking. He forced himself to keep his focus on getting where he was going, and he made the rest of the short walk without another thought entering his head. Grand fell in line behind a small yellow mare wearing a hat with a bow on it. She heard him approach and glanced at him out of the corner of her eye. He greeted her with a “Howdy,” and she gave him a small smile back before returning her gaze forward. At least she can’t tell I’m drunk. Grand’s smile began to fade, and as he looked at the back of the mare’s head, his thoughts shifted to his wife. Péra couldn’t miss it if I had only a single drop to drink. She always knew. He looked up at the ticket counter again as another pony left the front of the line and rejoined the crowd. A few steps forward, and he was stopped again. Two more ponies were ahead of him now. What’s Péra gonna say about this? I didn’t even tell her I was going. Grand grimaced, and then frowned. She’s gonna be worried sick about me, probably think I ran out on her. It wasn’t going to be fun to come home to, but he had to do this. He had to go to Ponyville. He wouldn’t be able to live with himself if he didn’t. And then it dawned on him. I didn’t even tell them. Nopony knows what happened. He’d tucked the letter into the bandana around his neck when he left the shop, and now he pulled it out to look at it again. It was exactly the same as it had when he’d first opened it. Maybe there was some small part of him that still wished for it to be a dream, but there was no denying it anymore. His daughter was gone. The hollow, resonant pain in his chest returned in force, and it took a considerable amount of his already-hindered willpower to keep from crumpling under the weight of the emotion and breaking down right then and there. I’m buying a ticket to go visit her grave, he thought, and I didn’t even bother to tell the family about it. What am I doing? What kind of father am I? “Sir?” The voice cut through his thought, and Grand looked up from the letter to see that he was now the first pony in line. “Sir, would you please step forward?” the mare running the window asked. Her voice was nasally and demanding, like she had neither the time nor the patience to let him think. It took him a moment to find it in himself to speak. “No,” he choked out. “No, I can’t do this.” Grand turned away from the counter and started forward carefully, one hoof in front of the other. But then he increased his pace, his steps becoming more and more wobbly and disconcerted as he picked up speed. Just like a salmon swimming upstream, Grand Pear fought his way against the flow of ponies, desperately trying to get out of the station as fast as he could. “Honey, what are you doing out here on the porch?” Grand Pear flinched as a hoof touched his shoulder, and he cracked his eyes open just barely enough to let a mere trickle of light in, but even that was enough to burn like fire. He groaned and rolled over, fighting off whoever was there. He wanted to sleep, and by Celestia, he was going to sleep. “Grand, wake up! You’re not going to go to sleep tonight if you take a nap so late in the afternoon.” The voice was all too familiar, but it still took him a few seconds to register who it was. Grand turned over onto his back, squinting to try and bring her into focus and spare his eyes from the sunlight that was shining directly in on him. “Péra? What time is it?” he asked. “It’s nearly eight, Grand! Why are you out here on the porch? Anjou told me that you left the shop before lunch today without saying where you were going, and then you didn’t ever show back up. I’ve been worried sick!” Grand tried to sit up, but he immediately regretted it. His head began throbbing the second he moved, and he groaned again. “Péra, can you lower the volume please?” “Not until you sit up and give me a straight answer!” she said, her voice still raised. “What’s gotten into you today? I know you’re tired, but that isn’t like you to just disappear like that.” Grand felt her grab at one of his hooves, and before he knew it, he was being tugged upright. “Gah!” he hissed, wincing under the pain. “Easy!” “Deal with it,” she said, dropping his hoof with more than a little conviction. She took a seat next to him on the porch swing. “What happened today, Grand? Where did you run off to?” Grand averted his eyes. His head hung low and his ears laid back flat on his head. He could feel her gaze burning holes in his side, and he opened his mouth to speak, but he couldn’t find the words he needed to say. He just let out a raspy sigh and stayed quiet. A few moments passed before Péra spoke again, but instead of the escalation he was expecting, her voice softened. “Grand, can you look at me? I just want to talk to you.” He glanced over at her, testing the waters before he committed himself to full eye contact. For her part, she appeared genuinely concerned, her eyes deep and questioning, yet soft and gentle at the same time. She reached out for his hoof, and he hesitated for a moment before letting her take it. “Can you please tell me what happened?” she asked. “I really don’t want to talk about it,” said Grand. Slight pressure was building in his throat, trying to choke him up, but he ignored it. “But I reckon that’d just make everything worse.” She gave his hoof a gentle squeeze, and he finally turned to face her. “I’m not even sure how to say it. I don’t think I—” Grand stopped mid-sentence when Péra’s expression suddenly soured. She leaned in close to his muzzle and took a quick sniff, from which she instantly recoiled. “You went out drinking, didn’t you?” Grand froze, his stomach falling into his legs. Silly me, should’ve known she’d find out quick. Grand watched as she wordlessly jumped up from the bench and stormed towards the front door, every step more of a stomp. “Péra,” said Grand. She ignored him, and so he got up to follow her towards the door. “Péra, just let me explain wha—” “No!” she shouted, whipping around in the blink of an eye. Her face was already turning red, and there were tears welling up in her eyes. “You don’t get to do this to me again! I gave you every chance in the world for years. I stood by and watched you tear yourself down every single night, and I kept telling myself that you’d change.” She took a step forward, getting into his face. “But you know what, Grand? I’m done. Remember what I told you when you woke up from that coma? I told you that if you ever came home drunk again, I’d leave you. You sat there and cried and begged me not to go, and I guess you did alright for a while, but you just broke your promise.” Péra took a deep breath, and her voice became cold. “I’m packing my bags, and then I’ll be out of here.” “Wait, Péra—gah!” As soon as Grand started talking, Péra slapped him right across the muzzle. “Why don’t you just shut your big mouth for once?” she spat. She turned back around and walked through the door, slamming it behind herself. Grand rubbed his cheek and stood there looking at the door for a few moments, trying to process exactly what had just happened. When he finally gathered all of his wits about himself, he rushed into the foyer and made for the bedroom, only to find it shut and locked. “Péra? Open up,” he shouted, pounding on the door. He listened for a few seconds and heard the closet door slide closed, followed by a few muffled hoofsteps on the carpet. “Péra!” “I’m not listening,” she called back. “Péra, dammit, listen to me! I have to talk to you!” “Or what, Grand? Are you gonna give me another black eye like last time? Maybe break a bone or two to get your message across?” “Open the door!” Grand shouted, only to be met with silence. He knocked again, the door rattling under the force of his hoof. His frustration was building, a deep, burning pressure in his head. He noticed the amount of flexing the door did just from him beating on it, and then the idea popped into his head. He was going to kick the door in. He turned around, lining up his hind legs for the center of the door. One or two good bucks would probably get the job done. Sure, he’d probably bang up his hooves pretty good, but that wasn’t the main thing on his mind. He needed to talk to Péra. Grand frowned. I’m going to bust down a door just so I can talk to my wife? He blinked hard and shook his head, which alleviated a bit of the tension he felt in the back of his head. Was I really just gonna talk to her if I’m mad enough to kick the door in? “I can’t do this again,” Grand whispered. He took several breaths, focusing on calming himself down just a bit before he turned back around, and with as much restraint as he could manage, he knocked on the door gently and politely. “Péra... Will you please come out and talk to me?” In the dead quiet of the dimly lit hallway, he could hear a few more hoofsteps on the carpet. “You’re not going to convince me to stay, Grand. I’ve already made up my mind.” From the sound of her voice, he could tell that she was standing just behind the door. At least she’s acknowledging that I exist. He felt the anger and tension he’d built up ease significantly, giving way to that same emptiness that he’d been working to stave off. It was time to break the news. “If you want to leave me, so be it. After everything I put you and the kids through, I deserve that much.” Grand sniffed. His eyes began to well up with tears. “But I still need to talk to you. There’s something that you need to know about.” There was a short pause. “I’m listening,” said Péra. “Could you please open the door? This isn’t something I could tell you without seeing your face.” Again, there was a pause, followed by the door opening just wide enough to let Péra stick her face through. “Well? Go on.” Grand swallowed the lump in his throat and blinked some of the mist from his eyes. “A letter came in the mail today from Ponyville,” Grand said, producing the badly crumpled and sweat-stained paper that had been riding around in the bandana on his neck all day long. “It’s from Granny Smith.” He paused again, trying to work himself up to saying the words. Hot, burning tears started running down his cheeks. “She said that Pear Butter and her husband passed away last Friday.” The bedroom door swung open wide, and Péra stepped out into the hallway. “What?” “See for yourself,” he said, passing the letter to her. She took it from him forcefully, practically slapping it out of his hoof. He watched her as she skimmed it, her eyes darting back and forth across the lines. The first thing to fall were her ears, lying back flat on her head, followed closely by her tail. Her eyes flooded with tears, and when she was finished, she thrust the letter back at him. “Is it true?” she asked. He could tell that she was fighting hard to keep herself together. “Yes.” he said. “I tried real hard to see that it was fake, but it’s true. She’s gone.” He reached out to take it, but as soon as he had it in his hoof, she darted forward and wrapped him in a tight hug. And then came the sobs. Slowly, one by one at first, deep tremors shook her shoulders. She buried her head in his chest as she let loose a volley of gut-wrenching cries, and all he could do was hold her tightly as his own emotions began to take over. He lowered his face into her mane, and he wept. They sat there in that dark hallway, pressed together as they cried. Like a raging torrent, years of repressed grief and guilt boiled angrily to the surface, fighting viciously to escape through his sobs. The world faded away from around him, leaving him only with his thoughts. Years and years of painful memories surfaced, each bringing its own baggage into the mix. The pain of moving to Vanhoover without his daughter. The cold distance that grew between him and his family. Birthday parties and simple family dinners marred by his drinking. “It’s all my fault,” Grand whispered. In the throes of his own sorrow, he hadn’t noticed that Péra wasn’t crying so much anymore. Instead, she was now the one holding him, patting him gently on the back. She didn’t say anything. Her embrace was just about the only place he felt safe enough to let it out. They stayed locked together for a long time, riding out the rest of their grief. “I have something to show you,” Péra said finally. She pulled herself free of his hooves and stood up, walking down to the hall closet door, Grand following close behind. She pulled the step-stool out of the back of the closet and used it to reach the upper shelf. After a bit of fumbling around, she came down with a small box. “What’s that?” asked Grand. “I’d kept this put away for years because I figured you’d destroy it, but I think it’s time I let you see it.” Péra pulled the lid off of the box. Inside were dozens of envelopes, their ends torn open, but their contents were still with them. Grand picked one out of the box and looked it over. The return address was from the Apple family’s farm. “I told you that there wasn’t to be any contact with Pear Butter after we moved,” said Grand. “I checked the mail every day, and I burned every letter I saw from her for weeks. How’d you do it?” Péra smiled. It was a wry half-smile, but given the circumstances, it was probably the best she could do. “I set up a P.O. box behind your back.” “Should’ve guessed you’d find a way to get around me,” Grand muttered. “You might have disowned her, but I didn’t,” said Péra. She sat down on the floor next to Grand. “She was still my daughter, no matter how much you didn’t want her to be.” Grand Pear frowned and glanced up at his wife. She was staring at him expectantly, using the same face he’d seen hundreds of times before when she’d used guilt against him, except this time, there was a sort of conviction to her eyes that showed him just how deep that comment had come from. Grand looked down at the floor, his ears flattening onto his head as more tears bubbled to the surface. “I know it won’t fix what I did to you and everypony else, but I’m sorry, Péra.” He paused to swallow the lump in his throat. “I’m sorry for keeping you away from her and putting you through all that I did. I’m sorry for being such a terrible husband.” Péra wrapped a hoof around his shoulders, pulling herself closer to him. “You’re not a terrible husband, Grand. You’ve kept us all fed and housed for all these years, and even though you did a lot of things that are hard to forgive, you’re still my husband.” She planted a quick kiss on his cheek and rubbed his shoulders gingerly as he began to cry again. “Are you still going to leave me?” he asked, his voice muffled by his weeping. “I was... mostly bluffing,” said Péra, averting her eyes. “I’m not going anywhere, Grandy.” “I guess you’re stuck with me for a while longer, huh?” Péra smiled. “Yeah, I guess so.” She reached down and picked up one of the envelopes, offering it to Grand. “Why don’t you take a look at all you missed?” Grand and Péra sat there together for the next few hours, reading through every letter Pear Butter had sent over the years. The letters started soon after the Pears left for Vanhoover, detailing a lot about the life she lived on the Apple family’s farm. Pear Butter talked about her husband a lot, how much he cared for her and strove to make her happy, and how much she loved him. For the first little bit, Grand had a small suspicion that her later letters would see her a little less enamored with Bright Mac, but as they read further, it was quashed. There wasn’t a single letter that didn’t talk about him in some way. If anything, she seemed to only grow happier with him, and Grand felt a different part of his heart ache this time. It reminded him a lot of his own relationship with Péra, at least before things had been strained in the last few years. And then there were the foals. Not long before the first one was born, Pear started including photographs with each and every letter. The first one was a simple portrait of her—heavily pregnant—and Bright Mac, and the next one was very similar, but with one key difference: A bright red foal wrapped in a blue blanket. Big Mcintosh. It was the first time Grand Pear had ever seen his grandfoal, and it brought with it a fresh round of tears, though this time with a little more sweetness to them. They kept reading, watching as the young colt grew steadily from picture to picture. It was clear that he was going to grow up with his father’s size. And then there was the second child, a dusty orange filly named Applejack, who clearly took after her mother more. After Applejack was born, the space between letters began to grow, and the letters themselves became progressively shorter. Before long, they reached the last letter. It didn’t have a photo, and the letter was only a couple of paragraphs. Péra had sent Pear Butter an anniversary gift, and the letter thanked her for it. Towards the end of the letter, she mentioned that there was another foal on the way, and on the last line, she asked a question. “Do you think Daddy would want to speak to me again?” And that was it. In a couple of hours’ time, Grand Pear had read the story of what he’d missed, or as close as he could get to it. All of the ups and downs of life that Pear Butter had gone through, all of the beautiful and ugly moments that she talked about, and there was so much more that he would never know. They sat there in silence for a few moments after he placed the last letter back into the box. Péra looked on at him expectantly with misty eyes, waiting for him to say something, but he couldn’t. He had no words to give, and when she seemed to realize that he wasn’t going to speak, she did it for him. “You know, I think it’s time we made a visit to Ponyville,” she said. “We’ve already lost so much time, but we could make up for some of it if we make a presence in their lives.” Péra scooted herself in front of Grand, gazing deep into his eyes. He hesitated for a moment, feeling a slight twinge of nerves in his gut. “I don’t think the Apples would let us. They probably hate us even more now that she’s gone.” “We could try to bury the hatchet with them. It’s been seven years now, surely feelings have softened enough that we could come to an understanding?” “Maybe,” said Grand. “Maybe we can, b-but I don’t know if I can face them just yet.” Péra gave a knowing smile and took hold of his hoof as she leaned up against him. “I guess now isn’t the best time. How about we give it a few days, break the news to everypony else, and then see about it?” “We’ll see,” said Grand. He gave her hoof a slight squeeze and rested his head against hers. “We’ll see.”