Mother,
I do not know what I will do with this letter. I write it anyway, because my hands do not know what else to do.
It has been two years. I have counted every single day of them.
I am not supposed to be angry at you. I know this. You gave me life twice — once at my birth, and once when you held me in the dark and made the only choice you had left. I carry both debts. I will carry them until I am nothing.
And still I am angry. At Morvaine, for reaching into our lives with its filthy hands. At myself, for being weak enough to be taken. At you — and here I stop, and start again, because I do not have words that are both honest and respectful, and you taught me I must be both.
You did not stay. You had always fought, through everything, until you chose not to. I do not understand it. I am trying to.
The hunger is difficult. I think you know that better than anyone now.
I hope I am making you proud. I hope, wherever you are, you are at peace. I hope — mostly — that you are somewhere.
