Sunny,
I hope this letter finds you well. There's so much I want to say, so much I want to tell you, and I don't even know how to begin. So much has happened. I haven't had time to slow down and catch my breath. Mom died. Your father is taking it worse than I am. We're back together, he and I, and sharing an apartment. Mom died and I had no choice but to stop and figure everything out. When everything has calmed down, if everything will ever calm down, I might stop and be sad about it. But right now, I don't know how I feel.
They have all of us working a shift-and-a-half since the Rent Riots. It's mandatory. Thirteen hour days, Sunny. A lot of us see it as a sort of bad omen. A dire sign. I can't even get time off work for bereavement. When I asked, I was told that I could quit if I wanted to. Truth be told, I almost did. I almost did. But so many others are quitting and we're already so short. There's also the fact that I can't afford to quit. Your father and I, we're just barely clearing rent, just like everypony else in this alicorn-forsaken city.
It feels like everything is circling the drain, Sunny. There's so much desperation. Ponies seem to think they're entitled to this or that, and so theft and looting are rampant. Angry mobs attack grocery stores and just clean the place out. Department stores get ransacked. The stink of tear gas hangs over the city and never really goes away. I hate to say this, Sunny, but I'm glad you're not here. I'd be worried sick about you. I'd probably go out of my mind if I had to worry about you on top of everything else.
Losing my mom means just one less thing to worry about.
Is that awful for me to say?
Stay away and don't come here, Sunny.
Officer Mom.