Happy Endingby not pluChaptersThis is the way you left meI'm not pretendingNo hope, no love, no gloryNo happy endingThis is the way you left meWe all live in bubbles. Bubbles of protection, of comfort, of familiarity. Bubbles manifested in jobs and friends and thick quilts. But they’re still bubbles. Fragile and translucent and loved by foals. Bubbles. And I’m not exempt. I’ve had plenty of bubbles. A lot have been popped, but I haven’t been freed yet. Not completely. Sometimes, I wish I could break every soapy film and just move on, but the bubbles keep getting blown and blown and blown. I’m starting to sound like my husband. He’s usually the one who’s fond of long, drawn-out metaphors, not me. And he’s the one who’s currently attempting to draw me out of my current bubble: the lingering feeling of warmth that comes from staying in bed. “Goldie, come on. It’s morning. Time to rise and shine.” My eyes clamped shut, I mumble a protest. I can almost see him rolling his eyes at me. “Fine, fine. I’m up. I’m getting up. You can stop now.” My voice is still weighted with sleep, as is the rest of me. I wrench my eyes open, and my hooves fly up, shielding them from the light. Written Script nudges them away and kisses me softly on the forehead. “Good morning, sunshine.” He whispers. I stand up, obediently, with a shiver. “I don’t even know why I have to get up so early.” I say, half under my breath, as I begin to get ready. Manebrush, toothbrush, et cetera. “It’s winter. I don’t even have to go down to the farm.” “You don’t need to remind me of the season. It’s fucking freezing.” He sighs. I nod. “Well, you still have stuff to do, Goldie. We have a filly now.” Oh yes. I’d almost forgotten about her. Maybe my mind thinks that will make her cease to exist. That sounds awful, but I can’t help thinking that. It’s the truth. I’ll be blunt: she’s unwanted. She’s not even mine. But I’m stuck with her. Like gum on a horseshoe. I mean, she’s adorable as anything, but I’ve never wanted foals. Script rolls his eyes again, presumably at the expression on my face. “Fine, I’ll go wake her up, but you have to take her to school. I have a train to catch.” His magic picks up his coffee mug and he walks out. He’s a good parent, unlike me. He really cares about her. He even does all the classic dad stuff, despite his ridiculous schedule. You know, fishing, park trips, magic lessons. I finish getting ready and follow Script out into the hall. Her bedroom door is propped open, and I can hear them laughing together at something stupid. Am I jealous? Yeah, probably. But whatever. Downstairs, the toast my husband’s already put in is about to burn. I run over to rescue it. Only a little burnt. I grab a plate with my mouth as my husband comes down the stairs, coffee mug still held by his magic. “Alright, she’s up.” I resist the urge to thank Captain Obvious. He deposits his cup in the sink and begins to bundle up. “Don’t forget what day it is.” I stop my breakfast preparations and turn around, head to the side. He rolls his eyes for the third (fourth?) time this morning and huffs loudly. “The eighteenth, Golden?” Ah yes. Visiting day. Just when I was starting to get comfortable, when everything seemed like it would be okay, the bubble had to pop. Why the fuck does it have to be once a month? “So you’ll be picking her up at ten, and the train leaves at eleven.” He continues. “You gonna be okay, Goldie?” “Can I... can I take you to the station?” I ask. He sighs and casts his gaze downwards. “You have to take Dinky to school.” It’s simply a statement. The air grows awkward. Nonetheless, he steps to me and gives me a quick peck. It’s awkward. “Goodbye.” He says. “Goodbye.” I reply. He leaves, and I shiver from the cold air let in. From being left alone. Because her timing is always impeccable, Dinky comes down the stairs. “You just missed him.” She can sense my slight monotone, I’m sure of it, but she’s just as sunshine-y as ever. “Morning, Mama!” She exclaims, running over to me for a hug. It’s almost ironic. “I made breakfast.” I gently nudge her off of my legs. She smiles, beams really, up at me. We both walk over to the table, where I’ve already laid out her meal: toast and apple juice. She happily plops down and begins to eat. “So... Dinky.” I start. I’m not very good at discussing difficult things, especially not lightly. I’d be awful at ‘the talk’. “I’m picking you up early from school today.” She nods. That was easy. Surprisingly easy. She takes a sip of juice, then sits forward and starts staring at her toast. Her brow furrows in concentration. Eventually, a purple aura forms from her horn and envelops the toast, albeit weakly. Script says she’s very good at magic, especially for her age. Slowly, the toast lifts from the plate and inches toward- “Dinky, we better go.” The toast clatters back down to the plate, and crumbs are flung across the table. Dinky looks sheepish, but I attempt to smile at her, which must comfort her a bit. She hops off the chair and starts bundling up. I do the same, then finally, help her put on her saddlebags, laden with books and flowery stickers and scented ink. I take a deep breath and push open the door. And the bubbles shatter. When I was young, winters were hard. I’ve lived on farms my entire life, and winters are long and hard and hungry. Always. So we’d tell stories. And think of warmer memories. So winters have always been nostalgia time for me. As I walk Dinky to school, the wind stinging our faces and destroying any lingering warmness, I try to reclaim that with memories. They’re all of pre-Dinky. They’re memories of long train rides and candy shop chats and family reunions and my wedding day. Sunny days and humid nights and country fairs. Popsicles and cider and carrots. Of bubbles. But I can’t block out the bad stuff, not completely. The tearful goodbyes and hospital trips and letters. They’re all still there. But, you know, they’re necessary. I glance down at the pile of layers that I identify as Dinky. Hopefully. I consider telling her we’re almost there, but the cold squashes that. It’s not snowing, just frigid, so eventually, the red schoolhouse creeps onto the horizon and slowly grows bigger. My breath forms clouds in front of us. I stop, a little bit away from the throng of foals heading inside, as usual, and watch through teary eyes as she disappears into the group. The tears are from the cold, not emotions or anything. Now I’ve been freed from my duties and I can go back to my bubbles. At least until ten. I'm not pretendingThe train car is a bubble, but not a warm one. I’ve always loved traveling, just for the sake of traveling. Trains and chariots are comfortable bubbles: they’re safe and neutral and have a definite beginning and end. The in-between places, somepony once said to me. I don’t remember who, though. But this bubble is anything but comfortable. It’s cold and empty, save for me and Dinky. Ponies don’t exactly visit where we’re going very often, even though the visitation windows are sparse. Sometimes it seems as if they’ve done everything to even discourage ponies from going. But unfortunately, we have to go, legally. We still haven’t spoken, not yet. Occasionally, I glance over to her, but she always averts her eyes. I can sense she wants to say something, but I doubt she will. “Mama?” “It’s Golden Harvest.” I mumble, almost inaudibly. She glances down anyway. I doubt I’m capable of feeling real guilt, but I attempt to fix it anyway with a smile. “What is it, Dinky?” “Um, I was just wondering... where we’re going.” “Dinky, we go every month.” I suppress the urge to roll my eyes. “I’ve told you. To see your mother. Your real mother.” “Well yeah, I know. But more like... why?” “Why are we seeing your mother?” “Um, sorta. I know that the... law ponies said we have to, but I guess I mean like... why can’t I- why am I not... with her?” My mind immediately recalls all the training I’d been given for this moment. The pamphlets. The meetings with the therapists. Cartoon drawings of smiling foals, and sad ones, and patient-looking ponies and pretty meadows seep into my mind's eye. I can remember all the things I’m supposed to say, sure. I just want to set that straight. “The court said your real mom isn’t good enough to be taking care of a foal.” She’s silent. My mind, immediately reacting to the (very wrong) choice I made, slips into a memory. “You can’t just live in denial like this. This is real. And you’re gonna have to deal with this. I’m trying my best, Golden, but we share this burden. We have to. I don't even think you understand. Sometimes you can be so bucking selfish...” It was warm then. I’m not sure if Dinky really understands what I meant. Even though I said it as simply as possible. Either way, she stays silent. For a while, at least. “Mama?” I turn my head and look at her. “What’s being a farmpony like?” I ask her why she wants to know. She smiles slightly, and launches into full story mode, babbling about all the things Script has told her about his job. Her smile grows larger as she continues, and her cold aura seems to melt, as if the bubble were forming again. If she can spread warmth, I might as well try. I smile, gently, like a... mother would. “Well, my job’s not nearly that interesting. It’s a lot of work, really. But there can be fun times, too. You spend a lot of time with family, all of them.” “I think that would be great.” She beams up at me, but my gaze turns toward the window and the snow-covered scenery rushing past. “Yeah. Yeah, it is.” The warmth seems to be fading. Maybe it was just my imagination: just stupid hope. I instead attempt to change the subject by asking Dinky about school. She likes talking about school. My mind blocks her out. I don’t like to think of her as a mistake, because that implies responsibility. I wasn’t the one sleeping around, or whatever, yet I’m the one who’s stuck with the foal. It could’ve been anypony. I mean, Derpy was friends with plenty of other ponies. Hell, she still has family. Not sure if they’re on speaking terms, though. She was even relatively close with the Elements. I’m sure one of them would’ve jumped at the chance to take her. Would’ve been perfectly content to sit on a train, listening to her immaturity, instead of dreading the day for weeks. I was perfectly happy before Dinky came along, but now that bubble’s been popped, and I still have to act like everything’s fine. It’s not. The whistle blows, signaling the stop is near. I interrupt Dinky mid-sentence to tell her to get ready. She probably knows I wasn’t listening. I carefully put all my layers back on, and the warmth creeps back into my skin. As Dinky struggles to tie her scarf using only her magic, I look out the window. The town (and therefore, the station) grows larger by the second. We stand in silence as the train slows to a stop, simply breathing. Getting off trains is always the same. You’re always surprised when the bubble pops, I guess. Dinky nearly clings to me as we exit the station, maybe from cold or fright or anxiety or maybe just from immaturity. I try to shake her off, to no avail. As we enter the real world, I look up, reflexively. And there, my eyes meet my fate. Somewhere, a bubble shatters. It’s not mine. No hope, no love, no gloryWhat this place is like is difficult to describe. Think of an old ponies’ home, but worse. It’s in this huge building, in the middle of bucking nowhere, with all the facilities and everything: from padded cells to butterfly gardens. Apparently Discord funded the place, but that’s just a rumour. I don’t see why he’d have any reason to. Seems like he’d rather just set them all free. After a cartload of security, Dinky and I sit in purgatory. She idly attempts to move a ball around a miniature maze with her magic. A TV in the corner shows an ad for wing-preening kits on low volume. It’s empty, sans us and a bored-looking receptionist. Standard waiting room fare. Finally, a far too chipper mare enters through an automatic door, levitating a clipboard. I nudge Dinky and we rise. She meets us halfway to where she entered. The whole thing feels rather dream-like, honestly. Like we’re floating through the sterile, hushed hallways. Just drifting past locked doors and muffled shouting. We finally arrive, and the nurse knocks softly on the door before pushing it open. A placard tells us that this is the visitation room. Like a prison, only... cozier. I take a deep breath. Out of one bubble and into another. We walk in. There’s no other way to say this: she looks awful. Her coat color has paled, and her disheveled mane looks like it’s falling out in places. She looks thin and weak. Without the metal band around her hoof, I’d assume she’s on... something. As I walk closer, Dinky hugging onto me, we make eye contact, and a shiver runs down my spine. That’s what gets me, every time. All the residents here have the same eyes. They’ve gone dead and grey and there’s nothing behind them. Just existence. And her eyes... it just makes it worse. I quickly glance down and nudge Dinky forward. She seems to be slightly afraid as well. I can understand why. “Hi, muffin.” She says softly as she stands. Dinky looks up at me and I nod. She cautiously walks over to her mother, and as soon as she’s close enough, Derpy unfurls her wings, and scoops her daughter up in a hug. My eyes don’t leave the straight edge where her wing ends. The hug finishes, and Derpy beckons me over. Dinky and her mother sit next to each other on the sofa, and I sit a safe distance away, across a coffee table from them, in my own chair. Of course, the conversation’s topic starts with Dinky. Least painful thing to talk about. It’s the normal questions. School, friends, magic. Stupid stuff. Derpy attempts to mention Dinky’s unicorn father, but I shoot her a look. It doesn’t even faze her. I think she just heard “father” and thought of Script. Rightfully. When Dinky mentions how much she likes art class, Derpy’s eyes light up. Well, as much as they’re able to, anyway. “Well that’s perfect! They just finished the redo of the art room, maybe we can go down there and you can draw me a picture!” Dinky nods enthusiastically, and we all head toward the door. Derpy lets Dinky go ahead of us, for obvious reasons. This is routine. All of this is a just a routine. If the bubbles pop, just blow more of them. As Dinky prances out into the hall, Derpy quickly yells out some directions to her. She turns around, smiles, and continues being a foal. We’ve only been walking for a few moments before she has the nerve to speak directly to me. “So, how have you been?” Her voice sounds light. And dead, in a way. “Fine.” “How’s your sister?” I look at her in surprise. No one has even mentioned my sister in a very long time. “Noi? Yeah, she’s good. Still living with our parents in Ponyville. She and Dinky seem to be friends, I guess.” “That’s good. Dinky sounds like she’s made plenty of friends.” “Yeah. She still goes to that afterschool program thing, with that mare... Amber something?” “Amethyst Star.” “Yeah.” “Speaking of friends, how are mine?” “Uh, fine, I guess?” “Like... Lyra, and Rain-” “Fine. Everyone’s doing just fine.” “Great. And the farm?” “Well it’s winter, but we’ve got enough stockpiled. We’re pushing for carrot juice right now. Y’know, to compete with the Apples.” “Sure. Well, that’s about everything I can ask about.” “Well, you know, I’m married, so there’s that.” She stops, prompting me to do so as well, and stares at the ground. I know I’ve hit a nerve, but I don’t really give a buck. “I’m sorry, I thought we were going to be having a civil conversation.” Gone is the lightness. “Yeah, but that doesn’t excuse you being in denial.” She meets my eyes with a glare. And now... I can’t exactly help myself. Once that bubble’s been popped, you can’t fix it. “I don’t even understand why you don’t like him. I love him, and you have to accept that. Just because you dumped your-” “Shh!” “Your stupid unplanned foal in my lap doesn’t mean you can control my life! I was already married when you ‘bestowed’ her unto us, so you knew and everything, right?” “I get that.” She continues walking, more briskly this time. I trail behind her slightly. “Look, just tell me why you don’t like him.” She stops again, and turns to stare at me. “I just don’t think he’s a good parent.” “He’s better parent than either of us.” I shouldn’t’ve said that. I... really messed up with that. That’s all I can say. “It’s not my fault you don’t want her!” She nearly shouts. Ahead of us, hooves screech to a stop against the tile, and we both turn toward the noise. “You... don’t want me?” The tiny lavender filly seems miles away. No happy endingThe look Derpy gives me is one I have seen many, many times. From my mother, and teachers, and bosses, my husband, and strangers on the street. It’s a look that says: “Great job, Goldie, now you’ve gone and fucked it all up.” Nevermind the fact the current predicament is technically Derpy’s fault. I understand, at least objectively, why the blame is being placed on my shoulders. Of course, that says nothing about what I’m going to do about it. Nevertheless, the hallway is silent. A bubble. Dinky sniffles slightly, on the verge of tears, as Derpy and I stand speechless. Then her mother-mode springs to action, and she’s tearing down the hallway, hoofsteps echoing off the walls. I walk slowly enough that I can’t hear what Derpy’s saying to her, but I’m sure it’s pretty consoling, because Dinky already looks like she’s feeling better. Better than I could do, probably. I keep my distance, for good reason. When her tears are finally reduced to just sniffles, she looks up at me, her eyes giant. The hallway is silent, as if the universe is poised for whatever prophecy is about to come out of this filly’s mouth. “Do you love me, Mama?” It’s a funny question. I’ve actually been asked a similar thing a couple times before. Hearing her say that brings up memories I’d rather not be there. Do you love him, Goldie? Like really. I mean, can you see yourself with him for the rest of your life? Being Golden Script? That sounds so Canterlot... Golden Script. Like you’d be schmoozing with fashion designers and art critics. But that’s not you. You’re just a regular old country mare from Ponyville, Golden. Someday you’re going to have to remember that. Okay, okay, I get that. I understand, but... just tell me, Golden, because I’m not really sure. Do you even love me? No, don’t answer that... look, I’m leaving... I’m going to go catch my train in a few minutes. Just... figure it out while I’m gone, okay? I have a question for you, based on how it sounds from your letters. I know it’s one you have within your heart as well, though I suspect you are afraid to admit it. Do you love her? I don’t need the answer; it’s a question for you. Just something I’d like you to ponder betwixt now and out next exchange. This letter may seem unsatisfying to you, but I’m afraid that’s all I’m able to express. I understand the predicament you are in, but there isn’t much I can do for you. You can’t exactly escape this. It was warmer then. It’s started snowing and it’s sticking to my eyelashes. I’m not going to cry for fear the teardrops will freeze to my face, though Celestia knows I want to. Hoofsteps enter my soundfield, and then the hooves come into view. I don’t dare look up. “Hey.” He sits down on the stoop next to me and shivers from the cold against his flank. Usually he’d nuzzle up to me and make some silly joke about warming me up somehow. We sit there in silence, watching the snow softly swirling to the ground. “I heard what happened.” “Yeah, well obviously, since you’re here. How’d they reach you so fast anyway?” “Uh, carrier pigeon.” “In the snow?” “I guess.” “Look, Goldie, I...” He clears his throat. “What the fuck, Goldie? Seriously, I-” I finally make eye contact with him. “Script, it’s not like that.” I can feel the tears fighting to spill. “You don’t... understand. I fucked it all up.” It’s probably the first time I’ve said that, out loud. Without any pride behind it, at least. “Yeah, well you’re damn well right about that.” “Don’t be that way, Script.” “Really? How do you want me to be, then?” “Script...” “I mean... I can’t even fathom how this all happened.” “I can explain. I can explain.” “I don’t think I even want you to, Golden.” “I-” “Don’t.” We're silent again. While his silence asserts his power, mine just signifies... weakness. “What are we going to do, Script?” And here come the tears. “No, Golden. What are you going to do?” These bubbles are becoming cliche. I glance up at the clock reflexively when I come back inside. It’s been a while, which is a bit of an understatement. The same unicorn escorts me (in silence) to the aforementioned arts and crafts room, then quickly leaves. This room, like every single one in this building that I’ve ever seen, is empty, other than me and my entourage. It’s almost as if it’s haunted and we’re just rebellious teens. I stand awkwardly in the doorway, just watching Dinky and Derpy make little houses out of various junk together. This room’s too... sterile to be a place of creativity. It’s more than a bit unsettling. Derpy beckons me over and nudges Dinky. She beams up at me. “Hi Dinky. How was your day with your mom?” She smiles even wider and launches into the details of her entire day. As usual, I tune her out completely. Once she’s finished, Derpy politely tells her daughter that we need to talk and brings me into the hall. I attempt to take deep breaths. “I take it Written Script came?” “Yeah. And left.” “What did he say?” “Lots of stuff.” “Golden, if you’re going to be difficult-” “I’m not trying to be difficult. I’m sorry, I’m just in a difficult place currently.” She smirks slightly. “You? You’re in a bad place, Golden? Who’s the one bucking locked up here? Who’s the one who only gets to see her daughter for a few hours each month, and has to watch her leave with somepony who doesn’t give a buck about her? Yeah, I know. Your life is so bucking hard, blah blah blah.” “That’s not what I mean!” “Okay, yeah, whatever. You deserve everything coming to you, Golden. It’s all your fault.” She turns toward the door, leaving me stranded, both physically and mentally. So I do something bold. “Hey Derpy, remember when you got your cutie mark?” “Just take my daughter and go, Golden.” I ignore this. “You ran to the farm to tell me the second you got it. You were so happy. I remember that you weren’t the last one in our class to get yours, more like the middle. We lie on the floor of the hayloft for hours, hours, and talked about it. What it meant, and stuff. We thought that thing would solve all your problems, and nopony would bully you anymore. And I- I was so jealous of you, so bucking jealous, because I’d already gotten mine, and it was boring and predictable. But yours... your cutie mark was just plain awesome.” “It didn’t solve anything. If anything, it made it all worse.” “I’m still jealous of you, Derpy.” “Just take my daughter and go, Golden.” The world seems to be floating around me, rather than me going through it. Dinky’s next to me, then cold again, then we’re sitting down, on a train. She’s silent from the concentration needed in order to make the little ponies move around her junk dollhouse. And me? I'm just watching the snow-covered hills roll by. Eventually, she stops playing altogether, and looks up at me. “Hey Mama, are you okay?” “What?” “Are you okay?” “No.” “Well... are you gonna be?” “I don’t know, Dinky, I don’t know.” “But... we’re going home now, right? And then Daddy will come home, and we’ll all be back together again, right?” “Yeah. That would make sense, wouldn’t it?” “Definitely!” I lean over and kiss her on the top of her head. “I love you.” I don’t.
This is the way you left meWe all live in bubbles. Bubbles of protection, of comfort, of familiarity. Bubbles manifested in jobs and friends and thick quilts. But they’re still bubbles. Fragile and translucent and loved by foals. Bubbles. And I’m not exempt. I’ve had plenty of bubbles. A lot have been popped, but I haven’t been freed yet. Not completely. Sometimes, I wish I could break every soapy film and just move on, but the bubbles keep getting blown and blown and blown. I’m starting to sound like my husband. He’s usually the one who’s fond of long, drawn-out metaphors, not me. And he’s the one who’s currently attempting to draw me out of my current bubble: the lingering feeling of warmth that comes from staying in bed. “Goldie, come on. It’s morning. Time to rise and shine.” My eyes clamped shut, I mumble a protest. I can almost see him rolling his eyes at me. “Fine, fine. I’m up. I’m getting up. You can stop now.” My voice is still weighted with sleep, as is the rest of me. I wrench my eyes open, and my hooves fly up, shielding them from the light. Written Script nudges them away and kisses me softly on the forehead. “Good morning, sunshine.” He whispers. I stand up, obediently, with a shiver. “I don’t even know why I have to get up so early.” I say, half under my breath, as I begin to get ready. Manebrush, toothbrush, et cetera. “It’s winter. I don’t even have to go down to the farm.” “You don’t need to remind me of the season. It’s fucking freezing.” He sighs. I nod. “Well, you still have stuff to do, Goldie. We have a filly now.” Oh yes. I’d almost forgotten about her. Maybe my mind thinks that will make her cease to exist. That sounds awful, but I can’t help thinking that. It’s the truth. I’ll be blunt: she’s unwanted. She’s not even mine. But I’m stuck with her. Like gum on a horseshoe. I mean, she’s adorable as anything, but I’ve never wanted foals. Script rolls his eyes again, presumably at the expression on my face. “Fine, I’ll go wake her up, but you have to take her to school. I have a train to catch.” His magic picks up his coffee mug and he walks out. He’s a good parent, unlike me. He really cares about her. He even does all the classic dad stuff, despite his ridiculous schedule. You know, fishing, park trips, magic lessons. I finish getting ready and follow Script out into the hall. Her bedroom door is propped open, and I can hear them laughing together at something stupid. Am I jealous? Yeah, probably. But whatever. Downstairs, the toast my husband’s already put in is about to burn. I run over to rescue it. Only a little burnt. I grab a plate with my mouth as my husband comes down the stairs, coffee mug still held by his magic. “Alright, she’s up.” I resist the urge to thank Captain Obvious. He deposits his cup in the sink and begins to bundle up. “Don’t forget what day it is.” I stop my breakfast preparations and turn around, head to the side. He rolls his eyes for the third (fourth?) time this morning and huffs loudly. “The eighteenth, Golden?” Ah yes. Visiting day. Just when I was starting to get comfortable, when everything seemed like it would be okay, the bubble had to pop. Why the fuck does it have to be once a month? “So you’ll be picking her up at ten, and the train leaves at eleven.” He continues. “You gonna be okay, Goldie?” “Can I... can I take you to the station?” I ask. He sighs and casts his gaze downwards. “You have to take Dinky to school.” It’s simply a statement. The air grows awkward. Nonetheless, he steps to me and gives me a quick peck. It’s awkward. “Goodbye.” He says. “Goodbye.” I reply. He leaves, and I shiver from the cold air let in. From being left alone. Because her timing is always impeccable, Dinky comes down the stairs. “You just missed him.” She can sense my slight monotone, I’m sure of it, but she’s just as sunshine-y as ever. “Morning, Mama!” She exclaims, running over to me for a hug. It’s almost ironic. “I made breakfast.” I gently nudge her off of my legs. She smiles, beams really, up at me. We both walk over to the table, where I’ve already laid out her meal: toast and apple juice. She happily plops down and begins to eat. “So... Dinky.” I start. I’m not very good at discussing difficult things, especially not lightly. I’d be awful at ‘the talk’. “I’m picking you up early from school today.” She nods. That was easy. Surprisingly easy. She takes a sip of juice, then sits forward and starts staring at her toast. Her brow furrows in concentration. Eventually, a purple aura forms from her horn and envelops the toast, albeit weakly. Script says she’s very good at magic, especially for her age. Slowly, the toast lifts from the plate and inches toward- “Dinky, we better go.” The toast clatters back down to the plate, and crumbs are flung across the table. Dinky looks sheepish, but I attempt to smile at her, which must comfort her a bit. She hops off the chair and starts bundling up. I do the same, then finally, help her put on her saddlebags, laden with books and flowery stickers and scented ink. I take a deep breath and push open the door. And the bubbles shatter. When I was young, winters were hard. I’ve lived on farms my entire life, and winters are long and hard and hungry. Always. So we’d tell stories. And think of warmer memories. So winters have always been nostalgia time for me. As I walk Dinky to school, the wind stinging our faces and destroying any lingering warmness, I try to reclaim that with memories. They’re all of pre-Dinky. They’re memories of long train rides and candy shop chats and family reunions and my wedding day. Sunny days and humid nights and country fairs. Popsicles and cider and carrots. Of bubbles. But I can’t block out the bad stuff, not completely. The tearful goodbyes and hospital trips and letters. They’re all still there. But, you know, they’re necessary. I glance down at the pile of layers that I identify as Dinky. Hopefully. I consider telling her we’re almost there, but the cold squashes that. It’s not snowing, just frigid, so eventually, the red schoolhouse creeps onto the horizon and slowly grows bigger. My breath forms clouds in front of us. I stop, a little bit away from the throng of foals heading inside, as usual, and watch through teary eyes as she disappears into the group. The tears are from the cold, not emotions or anything. Now I’ve been freed from my duties and I can go back to my bubbles. At least until ten.
I'm not pretendingThe train car is a bubble, but not a warm one. I’ve always loved traveling, just for the sake of traveling. Trains and chariots are comfortable bubbles: they’re safe and neutral and have a definite beginning and end. The in-between places, somepony once said to me. I don’t remember who, though. But this bubble is anything but comfortable. It’s cold and empty, save for me and Dinky. Ponies don’t exactly visit where we’re going very often, even though the visitation windows are sparse. Sometimes it seems as if they’ve done everything to even discourage ponies from going. But unfortunately, we have to go, legally. We still haven’t spoken, not yet. Occasionally, I glance over to her, but she always averts her eyes. I can sense she wants to say something, but I doubt she will. “Mama?” “It’s Golden Harvest.” I mumble, almost inaudibly. She glances down anyway. I doubt I’m capable of feeling real guilt, but I attempt to fix it anyway with a smile. “What is it, Dinky?” “Um, I was just wondering... where we’re going.” “Dinky, we go every month.” I suppress the urge to roll my eyes. “I’ve told you. To see your mother. Your real mother.” “Well yeah, I know. But more like... why?” “Why are we seeing your mother?” “Um, sorta. I know that the... law ponies said we have to, but I guess I mean like... why can’t I- why am I not... with her?” My mind immediately recalls all the training I’d been given for this moment. The pamphlets. The meetings with the therapists. Cartoon drawings of smiling foals, and sad ones, and patient-looking ponies and pretty meadows seep into my mind's eye. I can remember all the things I’m supposed to say, sure. I just want to set that straight. “The court said your real mom isn’t good enough to be taking care of a foal.” She’s silent. My mind, immediately reacting to the (very wrong) choice I made, slips into a memory. “You can’t just live in denial like this. This is real. And you’re gonna have to deal with this. I’m trying my best, Golden, but we share this burden. We have to. I don't even think you understand. Sometimes you can be so bucking selfish...” It was warm then. I’m not sure if Dinky really understands what I meant. Even though I said it as simply as possible. Either way, she stays silent. For a while, at least. “Mama?” I turn my head and look at her. “What’s being a farmpony like?” I ask her why she wants to know. She smiles slightly, and launches into full story mode, babbling about all the things Script has told her about his job. Her smile grows larger as she continues, and her cold aura seems to melt, as if the bubble were forming again. If she can spread warmth, I might as well try. I smile, gently, like a... mother would. “Well, my job’s not nearly that interesting. It’s a lot of work, really. But there can be fun times, too. You spend a lot of time with family, all of them.” “I think that would be great.” She beams up at me, but my gaze turns toward the window and the snow-covered scenery rushing past. “Yeah. Yeah, it is.” The warmth seems to be fading. Maybe it was just my imagination: just stupid hope. I instead attempt to change the subject by asking Dinky about school. She likes talking about school. My mind blocks her out. I don’t like to think of her as a mistake, because that implies responsibility. I wasn’t the one sleeping around, or whatever, yet I’m the one who’s stuck with the foal. It could’ve been anypony. I mean, Derpy was friends with plenty of other ponies. Hell, she still has family. Not sure if they’re on speaking terms, though. She was even relatively close with the Elements. I’m sure one of them would’ve jumped at the chance to take her. Would’ve been perfectly content to sit on a train, listening to her immaturity, instead of dreading the day for weeks. I was perfectly happy before Dinky came along, but now that bubble’s been popped, and I still have to act like everything’s fine. It’s not. The whistle blows, signaling the stop is near. I interrupt Dinky mid-sentence to tell her to get ready. She probably knows I wasn’t listening. I carefully put all my layers back on, and the warmth creeps back into my skin. As Dinky struggles to tie her scarf using only her magic, I look out the window. The town (and therefore, the station) grows larger by the second. We stand in silence as the train slows to a stop, simply breathing. Getting off trains is always the same. You’re always surprised when the bubble pops, I guess. Dinky nearly clings to me as we exit the station, maybe from cold or fright or anxiety or maybe just from immaturity. I try to shake her off, to no avail. As we enter the real world, I look up, reflexively. And there, my eyes meet my fate. Somewhere, a bubble shatters. It’s not mine.
No hope, no love, no gloryWhat this place is like is difficult to describe. Think of an old ponies’ home, but worse. It’s in this huge building, in the middle of bucking nowhere, with all the facilities and everything: from padded cells to butterfly gardens. Apparently Discord funded the place, but that’s just a rumour. I don’t see why he’d have any reason to. Seems like he’d rather just set them all free. After a cartload of security, Dinky and I sit in purgatory. She idly attempts to move a ball around a miniature maze with her magic. A TV in the corner shows an ad for wing-preening kits on low volume. It’s empty, sans us and a bored-looking receptionist. Standard waiting room fare. Finally, a far too chipper mare enters through an automatic door, levitating a clipboard. I nudge Dinky and we rise. She meets us halfway to where she entered. The whole thing feels rather dream-like, honestly. Like we’re floating through the sterile, hushed hallways. Just drifting past locked doors and muffled shouting. We finally arrive, and the nurse knocks softly on the door before pushing it open. A placard tells us that this is the visitation room. Like a prison, only... cozier. I take a deep breath. Out of one bubble and into another. We walk in. There’s no other way to say this: she looks awful. Her coat color has paled, and her disheveled mane looks like it’s falling out in places. She looks thin and weak. Without the metal band around her hoof, I’d assume she’s on... something. As I walk closer, Dinky hugging onto me, we make eye contact, and a shiver runs down my spine. That’s what gets me, every time. All the residents here have the same eyes. They’ve gone dead and grey and there’s nothing behind them. Just existence. And her eyes... it just makes it worse. I quickly glance down and nudge Dinky forward. She seems to be slightly afraid as well. I can understand why. “Hi, muffin.” She says softly as she stands. Dinky looks up at me and I nod. She cautiously walks over to her mother, and as soon as she’s close enough, Derpy unfurls her wings, and scoops her daughter up in a hug. My eyes don’t leave the straight edge where her wing ends. The hug finishes, and Derpy beckons me over. Dinky and her mother sit next to each other on the sofa, and I sit a safe distance away, across a coffee table from them, in my own chair. Of course, the conversation’s topic starts with Dinky. Least painful thing to talk about. It’s the normal questions. School, friends, magic. Stupid stuff. Derpy attempts to mention Dinky’s unicorn father, but I shoot her a look. It doesn’t even faze her. I think she just heard “father” and thought of Script. Rightfully. When Dinky mentions how much she likes art class, Derpy’s eyes light up. Well, as much as they’re able to, anyway. “Well that’s perfect! They just finished the redo of the art room, maybe we can go down there and you can draw me a picture!” Dinky nods enthusiastically, and we all head toward the door. Derpy lets Dinky go ahead of us, for obvious reasons. This is routine. All of this is a just a routine. If the bubbles pop, just blow more of them. As Dinky prances out into the hall, Derpy quickly yells out some directions to her. She turns around, smiles, and continues being a foal. We’ve only been walking for a few moments before she has the nerve to speak directly to me. “So, how have you been?” Her voice sounds light. And dead, in a way. “Fine.” “How’s your sister?” I look at her in surprise. No one has even mentioned my sister in a very long time. “Noi? Yeah, she’s good. Still living with our parents in Ponyville. She and Dinky seem to be friends, I guess.” “That’s good. Dinky sounds like she’s made plenty of friends.” “Yeah. She still goes to that afterschool program thing, with that mare... Amber something?” “Amethyst Star.” “Yeah.” “Speaking of friends, how are mine?” “Uh, fine, I guess?” “Like... Lyra, and Rain-” “Fine. Everyone’s doing just fine.” “Great. And the farm?” “Well it’s winter, but we’ve got enough stockpiled. We’re pushing for carrot juice right now. Y’know, to compete with the Apples.” “Sure. Well, that’s about everything I can ask about.” “Well, you know, I’m married, so there’s that.” She stops, prompting me to do so as well, and stares at the ground. I know I’ve hit a nerve, but I don’t really give a buck. “I’m sorry, I thought we were going to be having a civil conversation.” Gone is the lightness. “Yeah, but that doesn’t excuse you being in denial.” She meets my eyes with a glare. And now... I can’t exactly help myself. Once that bubble’s been popped, you can’t fix it. “I don’t even understand why you don’t like him. I love him, and you have to accept that. Just because you dumped your-” “Shh!” “Your stupid unplanned foal in my lap doesn’t mean you can control my life! I was already married when you ‘bestowed’ her unto us, so you knew and everything, right?” “I get that.” She continues walking, more briskly this time. I trail behind her slightly. “Look, just tell me why you don’t like him.” She stops again, and turns to stare at me. “I just don’t think he’s a good parent.” “He’s better parent than either of us.” I shouldn’t’ve said that. I... really messed up with that. That’s all I can say. “It’s not my fault you don’t want her!” She nearly shouts. Ahead of us, hooves screech to a stop against the tile, and we both turn toward the noise. “You... don’t want me?” The tiny lavender filly seems miles away.
No happy endingThe look Derpy gives me is one I have seen many, many times. From my mother, and teachers, and bosses, my husband, and strangers on the street. It’s a look that says: “Great job, Goldie, now you’ve gone and fucked it all up.” Nevermind the fact the current predicament is technically Derpy’s fault. I understand, at least objectively, why the blame is being placed on my shoulders. Of course, that says nothing about what I’m going to do about it. Nevertheless, the hallway is silent. A bubble. Dinky sniffles slightly, on the verge of tears, as Derpy and I stand speechless. Then her mother-mode springs to action, and she’s tearing down the hallway, hoofsteps echoing off the walls. I walk slowly enough that I can’t hear what Derpy’s saying to her, but I’m sure it’s pretty consoling, because Dinky already looks like she’s feeling better. Better than I could do, probably. I keep my distance, for good reason. When her tears are finally reduced to just sniffles, she looks up at me, her eyes giant. The hallway is silent, as if the universe is poised for whatever prophecy is about to come out of this filly’s mouth. “Do you love me, Mama?” It’s a funny question. I’ve actually been asked a similar thing a couple times before. Hearing her say that brings up memories I’d rather not be there. Do you love him, Goldie? Like really. I mean, can you see yourself with him for the rest of your life? Being Golden Script? That sounds so Canterlot... Golden Script. Like you’d be schmoozing with fashion designers and art critics. But that’s not you. You’re just a regular old country mare from Ponyville, Golden. Someday you’re going to have to remember that. Okay, okay, I get that. I understand, but... just tell me, Golden, because I’m not really sure. Do you even love me? No, don’t answer that... look, I’m leaving... I’m going to go catch my train in a few minutes. Just... figure it out while I’m gone, okay? I have a question for you, based on how it sounds from your letters. I know it’s one you have within your heart as well, though I suspect you are afraid to admit it. Do you love her? I don’t need the answer; it’s a question for you. Just something I’d like you to ponder betwixt now and out next exchange. This letter may seem unsatisfying to you, but I’m afraid that’s all I’m able to express. I understand the predicament you are in, but there isn’t much I can do for you. You can’t exactly escape this. It was warmer then. It’s started snowing and it’s sticking to my eyelashes. I’m not going to cry for fear the teardrops will freeze to my face, though Celestia knows I want to. Hoofsteps enter my soundfield, and then the hooves come into view. I don’t dare look up. “Hey.” He sits down on the stoop next to me and shivers from the cold against his flank. Usually he’d nuzzle up to me and make some silly joke about warming me up somehow. We sit there in silence, watching the snow softly swirling to the ground. “I heard what happened.” “Yeah, well obviously, since you’re here. How’d they reach you so fast anyway?” “Uh, carrier pigeon.” “In the snow?” “I guess.” “Look, Goldie, I...” He clears his throat. “What the fuck, Goldie? Seriously, I-” I finally make eye contact with him. “Script, it’s not like that.” I can feel the tears fighting to spill. “You don’t... understand. I fucked it all up.” It’s probably the first time I’ve said that, out loud. Without any pride behind it, at least. “Yeah, well you’re damn well right about that.” “Don’t be that way, Script.” “Really? How do you want me to be, then?” “Script...” “I mean... I can’t even fathom how this all happened.” “I can explain. I can explain.” “I don’t think I even want you to, Golden.” “I-” “Don’t.” We're silent again. While his silence asserts his power, mine just signifies... weakness. “What are we going to do, Script?” And here come the tears. “No, Golden. What are you going to do?” These bubbles are becoming cliche. I glance up at the clock reflexively when I come back inside. It’s been a while, which is a bit of an understatement. The same unicorn escorts me (in silence) to the aforementioned arts and crafts room, then quickly leaves. This room, like every single one in this building that I’ve ever seen, is empty, other than me and my entourage. It’s almost as if it’s haunted and we’re just rebellious teens. I stand awkwardly in the doorway, just watching Dinky and Derpy make little houses out of various junk together. This room’s too... sterile to be a place of creativity. It’s more than a bit unsettling. Derpy beckons me over and nudges Dinky. She beams up at me. “Hi Dinky. How was your day with your mom?” She smiles even wider and launches into the details of her entire day. As usual, I tune her out completely. Once she’s finished, Derpy politely tells her daughter that we need to talk and brings me into the hall. I attempt to take deep breaths. “I take it Written Script came?” “Yeah. And left.” “What did he say?” “Lots of stuff.” “Golden, if you’re going to be difficult-” “I’m not trying to be difficult. I’m sorry, I’m just in a difficult place currently.” She smirks slightly. “You? You’re in a bad place, Golden? Who’s the one bucking locked up here? Who’s the one who only gets to see her daughter for a few hours each month, and has to watch her leave with somepony who doesn’t give a buck about her? Yeah, I know. Your life is so bucking hard, blah blah blah.” “That’s not what I mean!” “Okay, yeah, whatever. You deserve everything coming to you, Golden. It’s all your fault.” She turns toward the door, leaving me stranded, both physically and mentally. So I do something bold. “Hey Derpy, remember when you got your cutie mark?” “Just take my daughter and go, Golden.” I ignore this. “You ran to the farm to tell me the second you got it. You were so happy. I remember that you weren’t the last one in our class to get yours, more like the middle. We lie on the floor of the hayloft for hours, hours, and talked about it. What it meant, and stuff. We thought that thing would solve all your problems, and nopony would bully you anymore. And I- I was so jealous of you, so bucking jealous, because I’d already gotten mine, and it was boring and predictable. But yours... your cutie mark was just plain awesome.” “It didn’t solve anything. If anything, it made it all worse.” “I’m still jealous of you, Derpy.” “Just take my daughter and go, Golden.” The world seems to be floating around me, rather than me going through it. Dinky’s next to me, then cold again, then we’re sitting down, on a train. She’s silent from the concentration needed in order to make the little ponies move around her junk dollhouse. And me? I'm just watching the snow-covered hills roll by. Eventually, she stops playing altogether, and looks up at me. “Hey Mama, are you okay?” “What?” “Are you okay?” “No.” “Well... are you gonna be?” “I don’t know, Dinky, I don’t know.” “But... we’re going home now, right? And then Daddy will come home, and we’ll all be back together again, right?” “Yeah. That would make sense, wouldn’t it?” “Definitely!” I lean over and kiss her on the top of her head. “I love you.” I don’t.
