//------------------------------// // day forty-two // Story: Her Mother's Diary // by Church //------------------------------// … Day forty-two... Oh, Dad... The first thing I remember about this morning was waking up with a severe headache. I had the second book in the Daring Do series draped carelessly over my belly (which, I’ll admit, is feeling a bit bigger than I’d like), and I was again sitting in the chair next to Rainbow’s crib. She wasn’t awake at the time. I remember slowly rising from the chair and stumbling over to my bed, where through bleary eyes I saw the clock. I remember it reading eleven and, almost instantaneously, I remember me resorting directly to panic. We were going to be late to Mom and Dad’s. Of course, because their daughter never truly amounted to anything, they would be fine with this, and usually were. I’d apologize for all of the empty years, but I don’t know how to tell them. It’s just so hard to confront them. They still love me after everything I’ve put them through, and I don’t know why. Rainbow began to cry when I woke her. I was stupid to wake her anyway, you should never wake your foal intentionally nor unintentionally. I’m a stupid mother. I don’t deserve her. I don’t deserve to have such a precious bundle of life, such splendor and beauty for me and only me to take care of. I am a careless, thoughtless, and despicable being who should have done exactly what my parents told me to do when I was little, but through rebellion and egotism, never listened nor heeded their advice. I’m sorry. I’m a weeping mess. I need to write it down. I had bought a comfy little wagon for her to lie down in as we made our way over to their house. I got us both ready quickly, Dash crying throughout the entire process. I felt awful, almost obligated to stay home just one more day for her. She must have been so tired. She had quite a fitful sleep last night, now that I truly remember it. Reading Daring Do only helped to keep her asleep; she still tossed and turned all night. She tossed and turned all the way to my parent’s house. When we walked inside, the scenery of the place wasn’t at all as I remembered it when I was little. I hadn’t been over for so long. The furniture didn’t look as if it had been made out of rubber anymore. It was quite contemporary. It felt fresh, renewed, like winter had ended inside of the house and spring had ushered in a new era. But for whatever reason, and I still remember the same sensation from when I was little; the house still felt cold. Mom greeted us with a smile. She said hello and walked directly over to Dashie, hushing her, picking her up and cradling her, doing everything a grandmother would do. She asked me how Dash was doing, and I said fine. She didn’t look at me as we talked, only at Dash. She was failing to hide the fact that she had been crying, but I saw her eyes when she came walking over. That fleeting smile. Those puffy eyes. It made everything feel off. Holding Dash, mother said that she had missed me, and that she was glad I had decided to come over after an apparently dreadful seven years. Any mention of Dad was completely avoided for the time being. Instead, she told me to follow her upstairs,and so I did. I knew what we were doing as soon as we took that right turn at the top of the stairwell. I knew this place well enough to know where my room was (or used to be). I figured she’d show me everything I had missed. I figured she’d show me just how much changed after I left. I figured she’d show me how well they’ve fared in my absence. I was wrong on every level. When we entered my old room, Mom only stood in the doorway and watched, holding Dash, who had then calmed and was resting silently on her shoulder. I thought they hated me. I thought they’d want to get rid of absolutely everything that I ever held dear in this household, that my old room would be changed into a rec center, or a sewing room. I thought all of my stuff would be abandoned, thrown out on the curb or sold away for extra spending money. I thought that getting rid of me would be the best experience of their lives. But none of that was the case. My old room. My seven year old room. It was intact, exactly as I left it. Seven. Years. They loved me? I wanted to cry. And my bed. My seven year old bed, with the frilly lace and quilted patterns and fluffy pillows and ornate bed-stand... it was there. The windows had light pouring through them, illuminating all of the old posters and random trinkets littered about the floor. All of it. Like a nostalgic memory. It was there. And who was that, breathing heavily, clinging to life, resting on my bed? At that point, I did start to cry. Hard. I don’t remember trotting over to him, but in an instant, I was there. The tears were already staining the sheets, cleanly mixing in with Mom’s, that I’m sure of. I smiled a faint smile. I found it hard to even do that. He was grinning from ear to ear, which I could tell was a very difficult task for him to perform. He remembered me. After seven long years, he remembered me, his little girl. Fresh tears fell right from my face and landed close to his hoof. I clasped it tightly, his pale, fragile frame wincing with the touch, but accepting it. Whatever was eating him, it was truly eating him. I barely noticed it, but Mom had trotted up next to us, holding Dash. I saw Dad’s eyes light up as they approached him. His smile miraculously grew wider, near the point where I thought it would simply rip right off of his face. His mouth trembled for a time, and all I could do was stare. With great effort, he said only this- “She has her Mother’s eyes...” I collapsed and wept like a baby.