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Dear Diary: 21. 10. Winterfilth 1380
10. Winterfilth 1380
You always told me that a diary is a very personal thing and that I should never read another's without permission. I hope you can forgive me that I have read yours. I found it among your belongings when they cleared out our hole and stole it away for I don't think they would have allowed me to keep it. I am living at Brandy Hall now, you know. Uncle Rory says my aunts, uncles and cousins will look after me. I can't say that they're doing a bad job, but I miss you, mother.
I read your diary because I missed you so much. I thought that since a diary is such a very personal thing, I might find something of you within its pages. And I have. Your entries remind me very much of you. It is almost as if you are reading them to me, mother. I could hear your voice, hear you talking, laughing and singing. It has been a very long time since you last sang that star-song to me, but I remember it, mother, I remember it very well and always will.
You once wrote that you missed your mother and that you wished she could be with you. You must have been forty-eight at the time. Perhaps you can understand me now. Perhaps you understand how much I miss you and father. How did you bear it, mother?
It is terrible. Every morning I wake up hoping that this has all only been a nightmare and I will be in my own bed or beside you and father. But every morning I am greeted by the dark of the room I share with my cousins and I know that you are not here.
It hurts so much, mother, I don't think I can bear it. I cry every morning and some nights as well. Auntie Gilda holds me sometimes, and though it does not ease my pain, it offers some little comfort. Knowing that she was there for you assures me she will be here for me as well. Do you think she will? Do you think she will help me as much as she has helped you?
In your diary you spoke of the bond between a mother and her child. I wonder if it really is what you said it would be, or if even that died the day you left me. For I am alone. No-one looks after me now the way you did. Auntie Gilda was your friend and is mine as well, but she is not you. She does not know what I need without asking and the warmth of her arms is different from the comfort your embrace would give me.
You said you would die if you lost me, even though I was only a very young child. Will I die because I lost you and father? Or will it stop hurting someday? Mother, I wish nothing more than to have you and father back. I am so sorry for causing trouble and for keeping you so busy you did not even find time for your diary anymore. I am sorry for complaining and for being cross with you. I promise, if you return to me, I will always do as you say. Auntie Gilda says you can't come back, and though hearing that frightens me, I begin to believe her. I have to go on alone, don't I? I have to endure this hurt or die from it. I don't want to die.
I will try and fight it, mother. You didn't give up, you believed in me during your pregnancy and afterwards, so I won't give up now, I promise. I will try to go on, if only for you and father. Perhaps things will turn out all right some day.
I will keep your diary and will read through your entries so I don't forget you. One day, when I am a father myself, I will tell my own children about you and write about them in a diary of my own.
I love you, mother.
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