The First Boy Was Always The Hardest.

"i Just Don't Know," I Said, My Voice Sounding Bumby, Not Like Mine, "how Do You Help Someone Who Doesn't Want Your Help. What Do You Do When You Can't Do Anything?"

I'm Just Writing What I Know. I've Never Been Much Of A Reader Of Fantasy, And I Think You Write What You, Personally, Enjoy Reading.

But She Wouldn't. I Knew That Already. My Mother And I Had An Understanding: We Worked Together To Be As Much In Control Of Our Shared World As Possible. I Was Suposed To Be Her Other Half, Carrying My Share Of The Weight. In The Last Few Weeks, I'd Tried To Shed It, And Doing So Sent Everything Off Kilter. So Of Course She Would Pull Me Tighter, Keeping Me In My Place, Because Doing So Meant She Would Always Be Sure, Somehow, Of Her Own.

And While It Is Hard Enough To Take Away Something That Makes A Person Happy It's Even More Difficult When It Seems Like It's The Only Thing.

I Seriously Doubt That The Santa Police Do An Underwear Check." -cora