(The Dominiques are talking quietly by themselves, across the room.)
Eventually, there is a postcard that says, Talked to your mom today. She's still adorable. I miss you so much.
And another one after a week that says, I can't do this anymore.
And the next postcard - after almost two years, the longest stretch of silence yet - says, in smallish writing:
Shit fucking hell, sweetie. I don't even know how to say this.
You have a daughter. Her name is Helen. Her daemon's Kalavar. Likes being ducklings.
I meant to have a kid - I didn't mean her to be yours. She wasn't supposed to be anyone's. I don't even know if that makes it better or worse. I don't know what happened. Fuck.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
timeasmymeasure
no subject
Date: 2013-07-31 01:28 am (UTC)Eventually, there is a postcard that says, Talked to your mom today. She's still adorable. I miss you so much.
And another one after a week that says, I can't do this anymore.
And the next postcard - after almost two years, the longest stretch of silence yet - says, in smallish writing: