//------------------------------// // This is the way you left me // Story: Happy Ending // by not plu //------------------------------// We all live in bubbles. Bubbles of protection, of comfort, of familiarity. Bubbles manifested in jobs and friends and thick quilts. But they’re still bubbles. Fragile and translucent and loved by foals. Bubbles. And I’m not exempt. I’ve had plenty of bubbles. A lot have been popped, but I haven’t been freed yet. Not completely. Sometimes, I wish I could break every soapy film and just move on, but the bubbles keep getting blown and blown and blown. I’m starting to sound like my husband. He’s usually the one who’s fond of long, drawn-out metaphors, not me. And he’s the one who’s currently attempting to draw me out of my current bubble: the lingering feeling of warmth that comes from staying in bed. “Goldie, come on. It’s morning. Time to rise and shine.” My eyes clamped shut, I mumble a protest. I can almost see him rolling his eyes at me. “Fine, fine. I’m up. I’m getting up. You can stop now.” My voice is still weighted with sleep, as is the rest of me. I wrench my eyes open, and my hooves fly up, shielding them from the light. Written Script nudges them away and kisses me softly on the forehead. “Good morning, sunshine.” He whispers. I stand up, obediently, with a shiver. “I don’t even know why I have to get up so early.” I say, half under my breath, as I begin to get ready. Manebrush, toothbrush, et cetera. “It’s winter. I don’t even have to go down to the farm.” “You don’t need to remind me of the season. It’s fucking freezing.” He sighs. I nod. “Well, you still have stuff to do, Goldie. We have a filly now.” Oh yes. I’d almost forgotten about her. Maybe my mind thinks that will make her cease to exist. That sounds awful, but I can’t help thinking that. It’s the truth. I’ll be blunt: she’s unwanted. She’s not even mine. But I’m stuck with her. Like gum on a horseshoe. I mean, she’s adorable as anything, but I’ve never wanted foals. Script rolls his eyes again, presumably at the expression on my face. “Fine, I’ll go wake her up, but you have to take her to school. I have a train to catch.” His magic picks up his coffee mug and he walks out. He’s a good parent, unlike me. He really cares about her. He even does all the classic dad stuff, despite his ridiculous schedule. You know, fishing, park trips, magic lessons. I finish getting ready and follow Script out into the hall. Her bedroom door is propped open, and I can hear them laughing together at something stupid. Am I jealous? Yeah, probably. But whatever. Downstairs, the toast my husband’s already put in is about to burn. I run over to rescue it. Only a little burnt. I grab a plate with my mouth as my husband comes down the stairs, coffee mug still held by his magic. “Alright, she’s up.” I resist the urge to thank Captain Obvious. He deposits his cup in the sink and begins to bundle up. “Don’t forget what day it is.” I stop my breakfast preparations and turn around, head to the side. He rolls his eyes for the third (fourth?) time this morning and huffs loudly. “The eighteenth, Golden?” Ah yes. Visiting day. Just when I was starting to get comfortable, when everything seemed like it would be okay, the bubble had to pop. Why the fuck does it have to be once a month? “So you’ll be picking her up at ten, and the train leaves at eleven.” He continues. “You gonna be okay, Goldie?” “Can I... can I take you to the station?” I ask. He sighs and casts his gaze downwards. “You have to take Dinky to school.” It’s simply a statement. The air grows awkward. Nonetheless, he steps to me and gives me a quick peck. It’s awkward. “Goodbye.” He says. “Goodbye.” I reply. He leaves, and I shiver from the cold air let in. From being left alone. Because her timing is always impeccable, Dinky comes down the stairs. “You just missed him.” She can sense my slight monotone, I’m sure of it, but she’s just as sunshine-y as ever. “Morning, Mama!” She exclaims, running over to me for a hug. It’s almost ironic. “I made breakfast.” I gently nudge her off of my legs. She smiles, beams really, up at me. We both walk over to the table, where I’ve already laid out her meal: toast and apple juice. She happily plops down and begins to eat. “So... Dinky.” I start. I’m not very good at discussing difficult things, especially not lightly. I’d be awful at ‘the talk’. “I’m picking you up early from school today.” She nods. That was easy. Surprisingly easy. She takes a sip of juice, then sits forward and starts staring at her toast. Her brow furrows in concentration. Eventually, a purple aura forms from her horn and envelops the toast, albeit weakly. Script says she’s very good at magic, especially for her age. Slowly, the toast lifts from the plate and inches toward- “Dinky, we better go.” The toast clatters back down to the plate, and crumbs are flung across the table. Dinky looks sheepish, but I attempt to smile at her, which must comfort her a bit. She hops off the chair and starts bundling up. I do the same, then finally, help her put on her saddlebags, laden with books and flowery stickers and scented ink. I take a deep breath and push open the door. And the bubbles shatter. When I was young, winters were hard. I’ve lived on farms my entire life, and winters are long and hard and hungry. Always. So we’d tell stories. And think of warmer memories. So winters have always been nostalgia time for me. As I walk Dinky to school, the wind stinging our faces and destroying any lingering warmness, I try to reclaim that with memories. They’re all of pre-Dinky. They’re memories of long train rides and candy shop chats and family reunions and my wedding day. Sunny days and humid nights and country fairs. Popsicles and cider and carrots. Of bubbles. But I can’t block out the bad stuff, not completely. The tearful goodbyes and hospital trips and letters. They’re all still there. But, you know, they’re necessary. I glance down at the pile of layers that I identify as Dinky. Hopefully. I consider telling her we’re almost there, but the cold squashes that. It’s not snowing, just frigid, so eventually, the red schoolhouse creeps onto the horizon and slowly grows bigger. My breath forms clouds in front of us. I stop, a little bit away from the throng of foals heading inside, as usual, and watch through teary eyes as she disappears into the group. The tears are from the cold, not emotions or anything. Now I’ve been freed from my duties and I can go back to my bubbles. At least until ten.