Her smile widens when Saoirse shyly offers her a folded bit of paper that's almost the same color as her cast. "For me?" she asks, accepting the offering, and then sinking into a crouch so she can be more on Saoirse's level. "Did you make this?"
She opens the card, first taking in the paper flowers that have been carefully cut and pasted inside. It all looks like Saoirse's handiwork, and Greta can only imagine how much time and care she must have taken to do all this with only one good arm. "Oh, this is beautiful," she praises, reaching out with one finger to trace the edge of one of the flowers. "You must have worked so hard."
And then she reads the message, also printed with evident care, and the pleased, indulgent smile she'd been wearing slowly slips off of her face.
I know we lied to the nurse lady at hospital, oh dear, but you are a good mum.
Greta sits down with a bump, her eyes beginning to sting, a lump already forming in her throat. Was she a good mother? God, she'd wanted to be. She'd tried. But when all was said and done, she didn't get much of a chance at it before she was brought here. And as much as she's mothered Saoirse, or any of the other children she's met, she's never really thought that it counted -- that they saw it as anything more than a bandage over a wound she couldn't heal.
But then, Saoirse's always been missing this. It's right there on the page.
I never knew my mum but I pretend she must have been like you.
Greta's vision blurs, though not before she finishes reading the rest. Oh, no. She has to say something, she can't just burst into tears in front of the poor girl, but she knows that if she tries to say anything, that's exactly what will happen. She presses her fingertips over her mouth, lifting them just enough to manage a shaky, inadequate, "... Oh."
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She opens the card, first taking in the paper flowers that have been carefully cut and pasted inside. It all looks like Saoirse's handiwork, and Greta can only imagine how much time and care she must have taken to do all this with only one good arm. "Oh, this is beautiful," she praises, reaching out with one finger to trace the edge of one of the flowers. "You must have worked so hard."
And then she reads the message, also printed with evident care, and the pleased, indulgent smile she'd been wearing slowly slips off of her face.
I know we lied to the nurse lady at hospital, oh dear, but you are a good mum.
Greta sits down with a bump, her eyes beginning to sting, a lump already forming in her throat. Was she a good mother? God, she'd wanted to be. She'd tried. But when all was said and done, she didn't get much of a chance at it before she was brought here. And as much as she's mothered Saoirse, or any of the other children she's met, she's never really thought that it counted -- that they saw it as anything more than a bandage over a wound she couldn't heal.
But then, Saoirse's always been missing this. It's right there on the page.
I never knew my mum but I pretend she must have been like you.
Greta's vision blurs, though not before she finishes reading the rest. Oh, no. She has to say something, she can't just burst into tears in front of the poor girl, but she knows that if she tries to say anything, that's exactly what will happen. She presses her fingertips over her mouth, lifting them just enough to manage a shaky, inadequate, "... Oh."