//------------------------------//
// Part IV 
// Story: My Little Chryssie 
// by Scarheart 
//------------------------------//

I found a baby book intended for my daughter but was forgotten with everything going on in my life. You could say it found me when I came across it while clearing out one of the upstairs bedrooms in a box with a few other baby items that never saw use. I'll go through them later and see if there's anything else I can let Chrysalis use. Eventually she's going to want her own room, I'm thinking and I want to prepare one for her. Giving her age, I imagine it won't be long before she'll want her own slice of privacy (assuming she behaves like a human). I let her come up with me and she watches me while I move stuff from that room into either the attic or one of the other upstairs rooms. It's already furnished with a guest bed and a dresser, but I want Chryssie to have it.

I apologize if I'm all over the place. I haven't been this excited or energized or happy for a very long time, so please forgive me if this part of the story bounces around like Pinkie Pie on a sugar rush.

Back to the baby book! I was sad at first when I saw it laying there on top of the box, there in the corner. It was supposed to be for newborns. In a way, the changeling poking her head under an arm and blocking my view of the first page is a newborn.

Or was she reborn?

The book is a blank slate, I'm thinking, a new beginning, maybe for both of us. I want to escape my past. I find I want to help Chrysalis discover her new future. Even if I don't think I deserve a second chance, I'm not going to deny her this one somehow presented before her. Of course, I'm again assuming a lot from one episode. I paused in my cleanings, tucked the book in one hand and balancing the changeling princess on my shoulders with the other. We go downstairs to the living room, sit on the couch and spread the book out on the coffee table. I find a pencil and begin on the first page, telling the curious little princess next to me exactly what I'm doing. She seems very interested. I begin writing in it.

Name: Chrysalis
Sex: It's a Girl! (there's a couple of boxes I can check, one with 'It's a Boy!')
Date of Birth: August 30
Weight: 15 lbs.
Time of birth: 2230 hrs
Name of Doctor Delivering: Mother Nature

That was enough for now, I think. I had to guess her weight and time she arrived, and I'm only accusing Mother Nature because my little Chryssie showed up in the middle of a dark and stormy night...

...the minute I think that, I'm laughing at the cliche.

Since I started that book, I've been diligently been writing in the little log that's in its pages. It's not very thick, so I dig up a relatively unused notebook - several, actually - and put them in a box to keep everything together. I also think this would be a neat momento box for lots of firsts that weren't too disgusting. The stuff I knew I could not keep would find over time their way into the burn pile at the furthest corner of the property.

Like moltings.

It started with her slowly losing interest in eating, her eyes becoming to look glazed and foggy. I didn't notice it at first for the first few days, but the signs were there. Chrysalis could never get comfortable, could not concentrate on the lessons of reading and writing I would try to teach her. Her grasp of magic became erratic and after accidentally bending a couple of spoons and forks at the dinner table, I had to tell the mournful little lady not to use it. I was becoming worried, thinking she was sick. Chrysalis became irritable, hissing a lot at me, only to butt her head against me apologetically.

"Too tight," she told me mournfully, squirming restlessly. "Too hot!"

She had been doing as well as could be expected following the rules we had established. Though she hated being left home alone, I promised to come home and had to do that for a couple of days while she anxiously pleaded with me to not leave her alone. I would leave the house those few days leaving a wailing toddler banging on the door of the house. I held my breath each time as I could hear her shrieking in a tearful voice, "No go!"

It was the most painful guilt trip I had ever experienced. But I could not risk taking her to work with me. That had become a near disaster and I really was not in a mood for a repeat performance.

I had also taken the beers in the fridge and put them in the barn. Before going to work, I would drink one, my excuse because of that screaming noise I could still hear all the way out here in the barn!

Chrysalis has a penetrating voice, I come to realize. Not all that different from the Canterlot Voice, but there are no windows shattering and it is distinctly hers. The keening wail breaks my heart, but I steel myself and head for work. She makes me feel like I'm abandoning her, that little manipulative princess! The day is dreadful. I slog through it in a state of "I'm a bad parent" misery. I came home that night and found the house still intact, doors undamaged, and windows still where they needed to be. I could see the glow of the television as I had left it on so she could have something to watch. I unlock the door, swing it open.

There she was, looking up at me with those huge eyes of hers and very happy to see me. I don't think she moved as that was the exact same spot she had been when I left. I scooped her up and checked to see if she ate the food I had set out for her. She didn't touch anything. Everything was as I had left it.

"Did you wait for me at the door all day?" I asked her at that point.

She's nuzzling my chin, her tongue all over my jawline and cheeks. "Yes," she replied in her tiniest voice. "Missed you." My little princess puts her hooves around my neck as best she is able. "Sowwy."

Yeah, I feel like a complete ass now.

Yay me.

It was like that for the next four days following. The crying as I head for the door, the long day wondering if my house was still going to be still standing when I got home (I was waiting for an earth-shattering kaboom), and the final act of a little dark changeling princess flinging herself into my arms. I'm happy to still have a house and Chryssie's happy I did not abandon her. I was really pleased she obeyed my rule of no magic unless opening doors or using utensils. I was also angry with myself for having a beer before driving to work.

I feel guilty for it, but the demon still has a hold over me. It's so hard to keep a promise sometimes. Maybe if I stop going to the next town over for my beer, maybe if I simply stop buying it.

God, it's hard. I think I'm addicted.

On the sixth straight day of work, Chrysalis does not throw a tantrum. She's come to realize I have to go, no matter how much she begs or pleads for me to stay. I promise we'll do something all day Sunday, tomorrow. She accepts it with a sigh, butts her head against my shin, and trots off to the living room. Her head hangs low.

Then came a lesson for both of us.

Changelings molt. The first time I witnessed it was like watching a car wreck happen in reverse. This also struck me as odd as apparently Chrysalis not only has bone structure like regular animals, but she has short rib cage. Once you get past her shoulders and to the little armor you see there, that's her exoskeleton. It overlaps the lower half of her ribs and is more for protecting her underbelly and sides. Then there's the carapace shell on her back. It's actually a solid piece that is flexible and allows her to move freely. Her wings actually sprout from a pair of slits growing around their base.

Let me back up a minute before I go further into changeling anatomy and what I've discovered at this point in my life. It's been a few weeks since she's come into my life and we've got a routine established. October has swung around after an uneventful September. Let me see, she's been here since the second to last day of August, appearing in the middle of that strange storm.

I've figured by now she may have arrived on that green lightning bolt. Lightning just does not occur naturally in that color. I could be wrong, but it's what I believe and that's what I'm sticking with. Anyways, we're back to the part where she's complaining about being uncomfortable. No matter what I try to do to take care of the discomfort, it's not good enough. Her skin feels dry and wrinkled to the touch. She complains of itching. Everything around her becomes a scratching post. This goes on all Sunday. Chrysalis is absolutely miserable and I'm thinking she's dying.

I'm using the notebook to remember everything. She still wants to be near me, huddling fearfully as she doesn't understand what's wrong with her. I've even tried moisturizing cream I found beneath the bathroom sink. As I rub it on her skin, it does a positive affect and Chrysalis even purrs a little. I nearly flinch my hand away as I feel her skin move sans the muscle tissue beneath it. I peer closer, still rubbing the spot I have my interest focused on. There's not a lot of give, but it seems as though her skin is loose. She's facing me, looking up piteously, not knowing what is happening to herself.

It's the third day since she started going through this. Being at work has been nerve-wracking while I wonder if she's in the middle of the floor, dead. I can't take her with me as the town is being scouted by some Hollywood people for a potential movie shoot. I'm not risking her for them and she doesn't seem too horrible. I do it anyways, lug her with me in a last moment decision, keeping her in a box. She stays on the cat bed all day, quiet unless she wants attention. Chrysalis is completely pitiful like this. She doesn't feel as though she's losing weight and I take that as a positive sign. Her skin feels weird and she just feels constricted.

It's busier and business is good for the next couple of days. It seems the actor himself wants to see the location and decides to stay for a couple of days. I meet him. Nice guy, asks all the polite questions, and I'm not sure if he's genuine or just bored. Owen is a boring town. I'm thinking he is genuine and he shakes my hand, wishes me luck after I tell him a little about myself at his prompting. He seems interested with the town and its folk and says he won't make a decision on the shoot location until late winter. There's no rush and this is a personal project his studio green lighted him to pursue. The guy is impressed I'm a war veteran and asks my why I don't have a better job.

"This is my home," I tell him, going into a little more detail about the house my grandparents left me. "It's all I've got."

He accepts my answer with an understanding nod. "Fair enough." As he leaves, he pauses as though he wants to ask another question, but changes his mind and waves goodbye with a smile and wishes me luck.

The whole time, I'm worried about my changeling. She remained quiet all day, then the next one under the counter. Her eyes are now almost completely glazed over milky whites. Chrysalis can still see, but not very well. It reminds me of a snake's eyes right before...

"You're shedding your skin!" I exclaim in awe as my stupidity gives way to understanding. By now we're caught up from what happened since the day at my work and where I was beginning to understand a little more about changeling anatomy.

Just as I say that, the middle of her back splits wide open. Chrysalis does nothing more than to arch her back and bend her neck down, going stiff as she's on my lap. There is a slight sound of her old skin creasing and splitting open, the gap growing wider and wider. The smell coming from the new opening is less than pleasant, but it's not as bad as the cocoon goo from ten days ago. I can hear her groan from within the skin she's shedding, wriggling to get out as she gasps for air. As grossed out as I am at seeing this, I do what I can to pull wide her shedding carapace. It splits easily and Chryssie yelps, jerking her back through the widened crack with more grunts and little groans.

All this on my lap. There's some sort of slime between her new skin and old running over the opening as she emerges, her old wings stiff and getting in the way. I noticed they weren't very big to begin with and I'm seeing the new ones as her shoulders emerge. Oddly enough, her tail is coming with her. I find that weird as my eyes go to the elongating opening along the line of her neck vertebrate, going to the base of her skull. It's there it peels off like sun burnt skin, or probably closer to snake skin.

The whole time I'm trying to encourage her despite the urge I have to scream. Revulsion is replaced by fascination. This is totally going from really freaky scary weird to really freaky cool and weird. Don't ask why I didn't get her off me. It's not every day you have a changeling shed her skin, facing you and looking up at you with pleading eyes to make all the discomfort go away.

"Feels better!" I hear her mumble, trying to move her head.

I reach out and push my thumbs beneath her old skin at the back of her head and begin to peel it away like it was an orange rind. Her mane is confined to the top of her head, much like a human's and her new skin does not include it. It's kind of odd she has a bit of both mammalian and insectoid traits. Then again, she's a magical creature not of this world.

Now her new wings are starting to pop up from being pressed against her body. They're shriveled and I imagine they'll dry out like a butterfly's and grow out to a much fuller size than the current wrinkled forms they are now. Chrysalis begins to work her legs free now as she's shaking her neck and head in little bursts of energy before stopping to rest, her chest heaving from the efforts.

"Almost there," I encourage her, touching her new skin. It's wet, but feels velvety. This seems to spur her to another effort of freeing herself.

Now her head and neck is free, though there are bits and pieces of dead skin clinging here and there, especially around her hair and within the forest of roots beyond. I'm thinking it might just need a good scrubbing with shampoo to take care of that and a brush. She's blinking with new eyes now, bright and focusing, wet nostrils flaring as she takes in being able to smell things properly again. Chrysalis lets out a little snort of triumph and is able to look at me and offer an embarrassed smile.

I smile right back. "This is good, baby. This is very good. Don't stop now, you're almost out of your old skin."

My fingers are working on splitting the old shell wider still. A dull crack can be heard and a large portion of her sloughing skin is now free from her and in my right hand. I set it on the coffee table and start working on her legs. Strangely enough, the skin does not extend into the holes of her legs, leaving me to think there's a different sort of skin within them. I've felt them before and they're hard enough to feel like the same substance as her horn is in there. Perhaps her skeletal structure is exposed inside there? I don't know and am not really sure. Together we get her out of her old skin. Bits and pieces of it begin to collect on the coffee table until we have a little pile of what looks like a plastic sculptor's drug-induced creation.

Chrysalis jumps off my lap and on to the floor. She's wet, coated with the slime that had formed to separate her old skin from her new and she's happy, fluttering her quickly drying wings. I can see they're going to be bigger than her old ones. She looks bigger, too. I think her legs are a little longer, as is her neck. Then again, I might be imagining it.

Before I decide to get rid of the old skin, I grab the digital camera from on top of the book case where all of the DVDs are kept. Chrysalis is sniffing at her old skin, curious as she studies what had once been a part of her. I take a few pictures of her doing that, kneeling and leaning in until she sees what I'm doing and starts sniffing at the camera.

Of course I took photos of that!

"What that?" she asks me as I'm snapping away.

"Mementos," I reply, putting it aside and giving her a hug. "Things like this are important, especially for families. We'll be able to look back and remember these days. You'll see."

In the back of my mind, I'm thinking something is going to take her away from me. It makes me afraid. Chrysalis is growing on me and I'll admit I am feeling like a father. It's only been a week and I find I enjoy having a child depend on me for caring and comfort. I don't know about the nurture part. I've always been told that's a woman thing, but I don't know. At this point, I really don't care. I've got a happy filly doing a fair impression of a fan in my face with her newly dried wings.

Pictures are uploaded onto the computer eagerly. I still haven't gotten around to getting an internet connection, but I can still transfer the pictures I just took. I show a curious changeling the pictures on the screen and she thinks its just marvelous. I then get a plastic bag and start putting the creepy thing on the coffee table into it and go to the shed in search of a shovel, bag dragging with almost no weight to it. It sounds like I'm dragging a bag full of loosely crumpled up newspaper. What slimey stuff got on me has now dried, leaving a crust like dried milk in places on my clothes and skin.

I decide to have her molt in the bathroom from now on. I come to this decision when I return and see the condition of the couch and parts of the carpeting. It's not horrible, but it's not exactly something you can ignore. I draw a shallow bath for Chrysalis and leave her playing in the water with her football (it's now her bath toy and stays there). Using one of my grandmother's old hairbrushes, I attack dead the skin still in her mane and tail and brush gently, yet vigorously to remove the remaining skin. Meanwhile, Chrysalis is absolutely loving the attention, her eyes nearly shut from the pleasure of a hairbrush going through her mane. She sits sedated in the middle of the tub, football partially in her mouth and squeaking it very slowly. The little princess hums happily and is disappointed when I finish. I lather her mane up one more time with shampoo, let it sit, telling her the whole time what a pretty little princess she is.

I'm a sap. So what? I'm also a raging lunatic, according to my ex.

Once she's done with her bath, I clean up the living room. I'm doing that a lot, I notice, cleaning. Oh well. I fully intend to make her clean up her own messes once she's older. In the meantime, I realize I am still a mess, sigh, and go to take my own shower. The molt still lies in the bag near the back door in the kitchen. I really don't want to deal with it right now. Work is in a couple of hours and I want to write what happened in my journal.

Yes, I could just do it on the computer, but this is personal and very special. When you're raising your own magical creature under your own roof, you can keep track of her in your own way, can't you?

Where was I?

The weeks go by and Chryssie molts once a month, I'm discovering. I'm thinking there might be a pattern to this, noting it down dutifully. We're both better prepared for the next one, though it still doesn't make the experience any less uncomfortable. She endures it with resigned trepidation as it makes her feel "icky". I just help and take pictures. She hates the pictures because she thinks she's at her ugliest when she molts. Very self conscious of her appearance, I'm beginning to notice. I stop after her next molt and just concentrate on helping her. By her third, she's doing it herself.

We do have seasons as this happens. Between moltings, fall goes into full swing. It gets colder and I begin to look for warm things to wrap Chrysalis in for the onset of winter. Midwestern winters can be brutal some years, mild the others. The last one was somewhere in between, so I'd rather be ready for the worst. I find plenty of scarves in an old dresser upstairs. By now, Chryssie's room is also finished. She stays in there when I'm not home, moving things around constantly as I tell her she can arrange it in any way she sees fit. She can't quite navigate the stairs without going slowly; they're simply too tall for her little legs at this point. It's easy to hear when she's going up and down the steps. I also at times hear her scooting the things she can move around with her magic upstairs. I always check to see what she's doing as one never leaves a child alone for too long. I don't mind. I'll catch her often in the middle of looking at picture books I let her have. She's very careful with them. Maybe I should get her a coloring book and crayons. She'd like that. My Christmas list is already forming as to what I should get her.

Her vocabulary is steadily improving. I read to her old children's books from when my mom and my aunts and uncles were kids. Dr. Seuss, Curious George, and several other names I can barely remember are found. The books look like they've seen better days, but they work. She asks me questions once she learns how to ask and they are endless. I don't mind them and have fun answering most. Others are fairly awkward questions, a few I deflect to something else.

About Thanksgiving time, or in the days leading up to, my ex calls me on a Sunday. We talk for a little bit, me bitter, she waving the custody of our daughter into my ear. She asks if I will give up all rights to Crystal so she can marry Mr. Jerkface and let him adopt my daughter.

I tell her no. I don't care if she marries the idiot, but I'm not giving up my rights to my baby.

She screams at me, "You crazy no-good bastard! You don't have what it takes to be a good dad to my daughter! You know I left you once I found out you were crazy! Nobody wants a lunatic raising their kid! Do yourself a favor and just do it. I'm sending the documents. Sign them or I'll make a judge make you give up Crystal."

With a calm I never thought I had, I reply, "You never gave me a chance to be a dad to our daughter. I've only seen her maybe three months of her life."

She hangs up in the wake of exasperation following my reply.

What the hell?

I stare at the phone for...how long?

There's a tug at my leg. I look down. Chrysalis has her hooves wrapped around my right leg, staring up at me with worry. "What's wrong?" she asks with remarkable clarity. "You sad. Why?"

There's a pregnant pause as I formulate how to answer such a simple question. "There's a lady who is the mother of my daughter - your sister - who wants to take her away from us." I'm trying not to make Chryssie feel as though she's not supposed to be the substitute daughter for my own flesh and blood. I'm already seeing her as my second daughter. I can't help it and to be honest, I really don't mind at all.

"I has a sister?" she brightens, her eyes sparking with interest. "What name?"

"Crystal."

"Can I meet her?"

"I don't know." I really, honestly don't. "I'd like you to meet her. Maybe one day."

"Is the lady my mommy?" she asks, confused.

I shake my head. "No, baby. She's not your mom." Good God, what a mess that encounter would be! "You really don't want to meet her right now."

Curious, she asks, "Why do you love the lady making you sad?"

"You can feel that, can't you?" I sigh, surprised when I shouldn't be. Our emotional bond is in the literal sense now. Its still tentative as Chrysalis is still growing, but she gets an idea of my mood if she tries hard enough. On top of that, she's a changeling.

"Yes." It's clear she does not understand. I honestly don't, either.

"Love is a complicated thing. Even I don't fully understand it," I say helplessly with a shrug while I tussle her mane. "I don't hate her. I love her because she's the mother of your sister." I'm explaining this to a toddler. Why? "It's a hard question to answer. Maybe you'll understand when you're older."

I think at this moment, I was wishing Chrysalis was still at the shrieking stage of her vocal development. I'm feeling inept under her innocent little questions. I don't think I'd mind an exploding door or two in my face. Anything but try to answer questions posed to me from that sweet little green-eyed dark angel on the mattes concerning my shattered relationship with my ex. She understands my discomfort.

"I sowwy." She hugs me, her little wings buzzing.

She's got the understanding of an older child by about three or four years. Her intelligence continues to astound me. Chryssie is going to be a lot smarterer than me.

Yes, I did that deliberately.

Thanksgiving rolls around. My boss's wife makes way too much turkey and stuffing and all the other neat stuff you get on Thanksgiving. The store is closed on this holiday and there's a knock at the front door of my house. Chryssie quietly finds a dark corner beneath a covered end table, her eyes following me after I check to make sure she's out of sight. We've been watching the first football game of the day with a sumptuous feast of fish sticks and fries. The boss and his wife are on the other side of the door, smiling huge smiles and holding dishes upon dishes of food. There's even a small turkey.

I invite them in graciously, wishing them Happy Thanksgiving, taking some of that food off their hands and guiding them to the kitchen. I hope Chrysalis has enough sense to remember to hide the way I taught her since I started telling her people would want to take her from me if they discovered her.  I would tell her when it was safe to meet new people.  They've been here before, when my grandma was alive. The last time they had seen the house was at her wake. Soon the kitchen counter is covered with food, all of it still warm. They can't stay too long as they've got a house load of family waiting for them to get back so they can have their family feast.

"Are you sure you won't come over, dear?" the boss's wife asks worriedly.

I shake my head, smiling. "Not at the moment. Maybe later this evening? About six-ish?" I really don't want to leave Chryssie alone, not on Thanksgiving. It's her first significant holiday (we did nothing for Halloween as I worked that night). On top of that, I've got to call my own relatives.

They agree, tell me to enjoy the food and both followup with a hug. I'm guiding them to the front door and noticed a little dark form dart curiously towards the kitchen. A pair of green eyes flicker towards us, tilting to one side. They start coming closer. I take the conversation to the front porch and chat with the boss and his wife for several more minutes. I think we were talking about their newest grandkid.

In the meantime, Chryssie has her face plastered on the window right next to them and pushing her mouth open on it. Her tongue is all over the glass as her angle is bad to see the older couple. She squirms on the chair, loses her balance and falls forward in the space between the chair and window sill. I wince, my boss happening to looks at the window. He sees a wet spot where a tongue had been circling there just moments before.

"What's that?" he asks, pointing at the smeared window.

Inwardly, I groan. "I was cleaning the window when you came in. Had a bird in the house and it smacked into the window."

"How'd it get in?" the wife asks, curling a finger to her mouth in worry. "Was the poor thing hurt?"

Spreading my hands and shrugging helplessly, I grin. "I don't know. I didn't think to ask before I let it go," I say dryly. "Flew just fine last I saw."

They're both facing me now, laughing. At the bottom of the window, a little black head pokes up, tilting this way and that as a pair of hooves balance on the window sill. Chryssie blows a raspberry at me. The boss and his wife bid me farewell, reminding me to stop by later. They leave and I wait until they are pulling out of my driveway, waving at them at intermittent intervals like an idiot. Don't get me wrong. I like them both, I really do. I just feel stupid waving at people who probably aren't even paying attention to me anymore.

I clean Chryssie's slobber mark off the window. I give a light reprimand for showing up in the window and shoo her into the kitchen with me following behind. The little princess is giggling the whole time.

The fish sticks and fries are placed in a plastic container and deposited in the fridge. I make a Thanksgiving plate for my changeling daughter and set it in the living room. She stares at the different types of food set before her at the coffee table. There's a little bit of everything and she has no idea where to start. Of course, there's the slices of turkey breast, cranberries, creamed corn, cornbread, fried okra, baked beans, potato pie, green bean casserole, mashed potatoes, sweet potato salad, deviled eggs, and, of course, pumpkin pie. A whole pumpkin pie.

I let her pick what she wants on her plate, of course. Her nose guides her selection and soon she's at the coffee table as I mentioned, just staring in awe at the new things she's about to try for the first time. Of course, I pile my plate high and emerge from the kitchen. We eat more than was probably good for us, winding up with distended bellies, slouched side by side on the couch and watching the Detroit Lions get their butts handed to them. I have a perfectly satisfied look on my face at the end of the game as my team, the Chicago Bears had beaten their division rivals. They were having a good year.

I make the appropriate phone calls to the relatives still talking to me after the game. Chryssie has fallen asleep and is snoring into my side. She's drooling on my shirt, but looks too cute for me to move her. I do adjust her head as her horn pokes into a rib. She snorts, blinks up at me, makes a face, and snuggles back to sleep. With her horn in the same spot again. Ah, the power of turkey!

I get mom's answering machine. Dad tells me he can't talk long but wishes me a Happy Thanksgiving. My sister gets into me finding help for my mental issues. I say "I love you" to all, but none return the feeling. They're so involved in their own lives, they make assumptions. I do too. For me, it's started to change. The little bundle of joy next to me is starting to become a sort of testament to what a little thing can do in a troubled life.

I find I'm not depressed. Thanksgiving is a stressful day. I let it all pass.

I've got Chryssie. I've also got a kind old couple who wants me to visit, if even for a little bit. I do that, prompted by a sleepy changeling who won't be waking up any time soon.

I get halfway between smashed and completely blitzed while there and have to be driven home. I wake up on the couch with an unhappy changeling glaring at me, unforgiving as the hangover reminds me of what a moron I am. Chrysalis doesn't speak to me the whole day, but glares, even hissing as if knowing exactly when to punctuate the headache at the exact right time. At least she had the common sense to stay out of sight. I don't even remember coming home. That night, she forgives me when I'm feeling at my lowest, hopping up into bed with a little effort, sitting at my side for a moment, our eyes locked in silence. She lays down on my chest, offers forgiveness in the form of a small smile and goes to sleep.

Of course I accepted it, don't be silly. I'd been apologizing all day for it and I sure as hell was happy to get it. I did not do good. It was not all right of me to get drunk. I even made a point to call my boss the next morning and apologize. To my surprise, he apologized to me because he did not consider his son-in-law drawing me into a bit of binge drinking in the garage.

The next month flies by. We get our first snow the second week of December. It sticks around long enough for me to bundle up Chryssie and let her play in the white stuff. There's only a couple of inches on the ground, but it's more than enough to become a winter wonder playground for a filly. We spend the day making snow animals in the backyard. It didn't stay around too long and melted within a few days. I took more pictures of her posing proudly with her various little snow creations before the sun took them from her. She looked so proud of them!

Then the less than pleasant things began to show up, courtesy of the United States Postal Service.

I did get the documents as promised by the ex. They look official. After carefully reading each and every page a few times over, I burn them. Not unless it's from my cold, dead hands. Last I checked, Crystal was still my daughter, just as much as Chryssie had grown to become. I may be downtrodden, poor, and unable to defend myself with lawyers, but I intended to fight. I was an angry father, a spiteful lover, and a scarred war veteran as I burned those pages, one at a time, my face set with grim resolve.

Next year was going to be ugly and I found myslef worrying about Chryssie and Crystal equally. I have two daughters, not just one. One I could hold and hug and love, the other one I worried about, wanted to hold and hug and love. I wrote a letter to my boss one evening with Chryssie looking at me curiously from her couch as she watched her movie. I would give it to him when I go to work. Maybe he can help. In the letter was everything. Maybe even my hopes.

A Christmas tree found its way in the living room a week before, a gift from an anonymous donor from the town's only church. It was delivered in the first flakes of the winter's second snow fall. Chryssie hid upstairs. I'm sure she found a way to watch everything going on as the tree was delivered by two men I was only familiar with, but did not know. I knew the pastor with them, a young man not much older than myself and his wife. I could sense this was a welfare check of some sort as I was beginning to think my boss was trying to get the town interested in me. He had the letter by now.

The subject was broached to me one afternoon as I was getting ready to start my shift.

"I think I understand a bit more of what you're going through, son," he told me, then shook his head with a sigh, "but you shouldn't have burned that document. You signed for it, didn't you?"

Sighing, I replied, "Yeah, I did."

He shook his head. "I'll make a few calls and ask around. No promises."

Nothing more was said about it.

It was Crystal's birthday today. She's three now. I wonder how she's doing, if she's smiling, if she's laughing. Is she happy? Is she loved? I worry. Chryssie senses my anxieties as I sightlessly watch the television, jumping on the couch next to me and forcing her muzzle under a hand. I can feel her trying to soothe her way into my thoughts, her own eyes reflecting my unhappiness. I'm worrying over something I have no control over. Chryssie is just worried about me. She knows I'm hurting, but she doesn't know why. The filly does her best to cheer me up, her nuzzle to the tip of my nose and she's just humming softly, her eyes closed. The tip of her horn glows with some sort of magic. Maybe it's some natural ability she has. I don't know.

I'll be damned if it doesn't work. Our bond has slowly grown stronger over the past few months and we have a fairly good idea of what the other wants or needs if we think hard enough. It's not so much mind reading as it is mind feeling. We can't communicate telepathically, though I wonder if that is a possibility as she gets older and more refined with her powers. Sharing our feelings is odd. Chrysalis feeds off of mine and I find I'm willing to do it for her. My body has also adjusted to her feeding. Is this good or bad? I don't know. I have come to understand with full clarity after a few months and with no shades of doubt.

I love my second daughter and she loves me.

Her first Christmas is simple, as I can only afford to give her a few simple things. I have to explain how the holiday works, giving its initial meaning and of course her introduction to Santa Clause. I think she likes the Santa Clause idea a lot better as she tears into her first brightly wrapped gift and finds a stuffed Twilight Sparkle plushie almost as big as her beneath it.

No, not the alicorn one, but an older unicorn toy I found unopened at a Goodwill. She absolutely loves it, squealing with delight and hugging it and me at the same time. I also have the coloring books and the crayons which she also loves, but her Twilight Sparkle was the absolute favorite thing in the whole world the moment she could see beneath the wrapping. I had sent my mom a wrapped dublicate doll with a Christmas card in hopes she would in turn give it to Crystal.

I recieved a few cards from the family. Mom said she would forward the gift and that it was very nice of me to try and do something for my daughter. I think she was not expecting it. Dad sent me a hundred bucks. My sister offered me a job working for her and learning how to be a real estate agent. She even included her business card. Cute. The boss gave me a nice bonus, though it was completely unecessary. Five hundred dollars will go a long way with my tiny budget.

New Years comes and goes and it's the next year already. It gets colder and the next wave of snow blankets the flat plains in frozen contemplation. The air moves, a constant bombardment of chilled winds. It's too cold for Chrysalis, in my eyes for her to go outside. The little filly tried to follow me once when I went to shovel snow from the driveway. It was deep and drifting. She was bundled in just about anything I could wrap her in until she was a ball of scarves and sweaters. A stocking cap with a hole cut in it for her horn was snuggled warmly on her head. Earmuffs were probably an overkill, but I'm taking no chances in sub-zero weather when she decides she's going to follow me into January's embrace.

It doesn't last long. After fifteen minutes, she's begging me to let her go back inside.

We go inside, I spend ten minutes or so getting her out of her warm bundle of everything imaginable I could put on her in terms of warm layers. She keeps her hat on. When I go outside, she's at the window, waving at me with a little hoof as I go back to finishing the driveway.

The response I expected from the ex didn't come as I had expected. One morning while sipping on a cup of coffee and watching the news, there was a major story on all the networks. Outside, another blizzard was brewing. This winter was turning out to be harsher than usual. An airliner crashed a river early this morning after the pilot reported engine problems. I'm staring as there's live footage of a large passenger jet lying upside down and in several large pieces. It happened three hours ago. Rescue efforts were underway. There were few survivors.

The phone rings. A deep pit forms in my stomach. I am loathe to answer it. I pick up the reciever anyway.

"Hello?"

"Mike? Are you watching the news?" It's mom. Her voice is breaking, though she's trying to be strong.

"Yeah. What's wrong mom? Was someone we know on that plane?"

Chryssie is there, circling my legs, her wings buzzing in the somber mood hovering over the living room. My eyes go from her to the television. The camera is on some bundled survivors from earlier footage, being taken from the boat bringing them from the wreck. One of them is my ex. There's not mistaking her face. Only...

"It's Crystal."

I'm starting to feel sick. "She wasn't on that plane, was she?"

There's a pause. Mom's crying. I can hear it. I'm starting to cry. Don't let it be, please God don't let it be what I think it is!

"I'm sorry, Mike. I'm so sorry." Mom's voice is in shambles.

The phone falls from my nerveless hands. I scream, falling on my knees. I deny it. I deny the possibility. Not my baby! Not my daughter, my flesh and blood, my Crystal!

Chryssie is somehow in my arms. She's scared of me, I can feel it, but she can't bring herself to leave me. She doesn't understand. She does understand. It doesn't matter either way, she's there. She's trying to make me okay. Her little voice is in my ear, her own cries soft as she shares my grief. Over and over she says the same thing.

"I love you, daddy. Please don't cry."

That was the first time she ever called me Daddy.