Calm In The Storm

by FabulousDivaRarity

Rating: teen
Tags: Drama, Suicide / Self Harm, Mrs. Shy, Twilight Velvet, Slice of Life, My Little Pony: Friendship is Magic, Death
Length: 5893

During the events of “The Beginning Of The End”, Twilight Velvet and Mrs. Shy worry over their children together.

Nothing bonds ponies quite like a crisis. When Sombra has seemingly succeeded in taking over Equestria, Mrs. Shy takes refuge with Twilight Velvet as the two of them pray for the safety of their children.

Death and suicide/self harm tags are used only because they are themes in the story. No actual death or suicide/self harm occurs.

Published 2019-09-11 11:40:01 UTC
Last updated 2019-09-11 11:40:01 UTC

Coming Together

Author's Note

This story ran away with itself. I worked for fifteen minutes, took a quick break, then went at this for a solid five hours straight, and I have to say, I’m proud of it.

This one is for every Mom who has ever worried for their kids in a potentially dangerous situation. Y’all are queens for handling that. Hopefully you can relate to the struggles here.

Coming Together

I’ve been thinking a lot about shock.

Shock is a helmet, made to protect us from the initial impact of pain. But, as with any helmet, it doesn’t mean that the pain will never sink in. It simply means it is lessened for the moment. There is no guarantee that when we take off that helmet that we will not feel the pain anyways, but to a lesser degree, or perhaps it will be delayed to a later time.

Shock is indeed a helmet, and when it is removed, horror and pain sink in.

How long shock lasts is a question I still do not have the answer to, because I am still in the middle of it.

I am sitting in my living room, numbed to all of my senses. I’m so cold, chilled to the bone. But I cannot move to get a blanket. My husband is out, and hasn’t returned. Odds are, he’s gone too, brainwashed by King Sombra, whose maniacal laughter can be heard from here. The blackened skies are the indicator of his presence, as are the brainwashed masses marching uniformly outside of my home. I have yet to hear anything from my children. My son- my baby boy, is in the Crystal Empire, under siege from Sombra. And, in all likelihood has either been captured or brainwashed too, and my little girl is out there trying to stop Sombra, and possibly facing her brother.

They don’t make a book on how to handle something like that because really- who in Equestria would think of that? I almost wish they did so that I could read it. It would be wonderful, if I could move. My fireplace is lit, and my eyes are glued to the flickering flames. They mesmerize me, keep my mind comfortably blank. If I think, the shock will erode. If I think, the fear will set in. If I think, it all becomes real. And it can’t be real.

I stare at the fireplace on this early spring morning. The mornings are still chilly, enough for the fireplace to be on and it be acceptable. I struggle with early spring. It always reminds me of the first months of my son’s life when he was struggling to breathe. That damnable tube that I loved and hated in equal measure for him needing it and it keeping him alive.

“I’m sorry, Ma’am but the baby needs this tube to breathe.”

“His name is Shining Armor. And he’s my son.”

The memory sends a jolt through me, trying to break the armor of my helmet of shock. A crack forms in the helmet, and sadness starts to seep in. I jerk, I need to move now. I need to move to outrun my thoughts.

“I think I need some tea.” I say out loud. I remember now that I’m not alone in the room. Mrs. Shy, Fluttershy’s mother, has come to visit me. We became friends not too long after our daughters did. She flew down this morning after the attack on Cloudsdale. I think I got so tied up in my thoughts that I forgot she was here. Though, I do believe that she might have been doing the same thing I was. Obsessively worrying for her children. Perhaps that was why the silence was comfortable rather than prickly.

“That sounds like a good idea.” Her voice was softer than mine, and it didn’t shatter the helmet of shock I wore. That was good. I didn’t think I could handle it being torn off. I move to the kitchen and begin filling the tea kettle with water, then set it on the stove, turning on the burner. I do it all automatically, not thinking about it. Because I simply can’t.

From the moment children are born, there is a canopy surrounding every parent and their child, every single one. Especially mothers. This canopy tells us that we can protect our children from anything and everything. Very slowly, this canopy is punctured as our children grow, by injuries they get, by ways they mature, by their heartbreak, and we are to accept that we cannot protect them from everything. On some level, we do. But that canopy of illusion is still up, making us believe that we can still protect them.

Sombra just tore down the canopy for all of us.

My eyes are growing misty at that thought, but the whistle of the kettle stops my tears, and jolts me out of my thoughts. I use my magic to pick it up, but it’s trembling, because I feel so hollow inside that I don’t have much strength. The water in the kettle is sloshing around, and a slight drizzle of the water splats on my hoof. I jerk on instinct, but I really don’t feel anything. I’ve been numbed completely in body and feeling. I move it to another burner and run my hoof under some cold water anyways.

That done, I go to the cabinet, and my eyes land on my daughter’s favorite tea, a chamomile tea, to help with sleep.

I can’t sleep, Mom. My mind won’t stop going over the test material for tomorrow. Can I have some tea?

I jerk away and grab a teabag at random from the cabinet and close it with far too much force using my magic. Out of sight, out of mind. But another crack is forming in my helmet. I try and stop it. I drop the teabag in the kettle and shut it, getting out some white teacups. I wait a moment, then I pour the tea, not really seeing it as I take it over to my friend. I float her teacup over to her, and I take a shaky sip of my own tea, shivering, and hear it rattle against the saucer. The tea is green tea.

I hear a soft gasp and mewling noise. I manage to look up.

Mrs. Shy is very clearly struggling to keep her own composure. She doesn’t look up from her cup, but I know she feels my eyes on her, because she answers my unspoken question.

“This is Fluttershy’s favorite tea.” She says, and needs to say no more.

I wish I had words to comfort her, but how can I do that if I cannot even comfort myself? The most I can do is set my tea down, sit next to her, and pat her hoof gently. I know what she’s going through, and the most I can do is let her know I’m here. I want to say something, and I even open my mouth to, but I can’t make myself speak. I just don’t have the energy.

She doesn’t cry. She takes a long draught of tea instead, and sighs with some odd relief I cannot understand. How can she feel relieved?

Again, she seems to understand my silence. “It makes me feel closer to her, drinking her favorite tea.” She says. “There’s some comfort in that.”

I nod in a wooden gesture. Somehow I manage to find my voice and speak. “I can’t bring myself to look at reminders of my children. I can’t even go near their rooms.” My voice doesn’t even sound like mine. It sounds like I’m some sort of monotone robot. Unfeeling, hollow inside.

Mrs. Shy spoke. “Everypony deals with grief in their own way. There’s no wrong way to do it.”

“I can’t afford to feel. If I feel, the memories will hit me and I’ll fall apart, and I can’t do that. My children, they need me to be strong.”

She considered that a moment, seemingly. “If we are always strong for them, how will they learn how to handle their own emotions? Children learn what they live. They imitate us. If we don’t feel, how will they?”

I take in the words, and they are my undoing. My breath begins to shake as I inhale, and I feel the same knife that tore the canopy for me tear up my composure as well. I feel my neutral expression begin to droop, and I get up, walking from the living room to the doors of my children’s old bedrooms. There is a small space between the doors. I rest my head against it, and put one hoof on each of their doors. I let helmet of shock fall off of me at last, and I start to cry as the memories overwhelm me. The days they entered these rooms, the nights they came into mine for comfort, the scrapes I kissed, the tears I dried, the scent of the babies I’d rocked to sleep at night and held far longer than needed to make sure they were okay. The baby boy who’d been given thirty days to live after birth and who fought through it valiantly to grow up to become a Captain of the Royal Guard and a Prince of the Crystal Empire. The baby girl I’d read stories to every night who was more interested in knowledge than friendship and yet grew up to become the Princess of Friendship. I wept for them, for myself, for my husband, because I didn’t know if I would see them again.

There is no pain worse than the pain of the unknown. Even stories that end in death have some type of end to their grief, because they know, at least, that whomever they are burying is asleep in the ground. But to the parent who does not know if their children are dead or alive, there is no greater torment than not knowing if they will ever see the child they raised again, or if they do that it may be in a coffin. The agony doesn’t end, nor do the questions. At the moment, the question plaguing my mind was, Why my family? Why not somepony else?

I am completely aware that it is not just my children in danger. I know my daughter-in-law and my granddaughter are too. But in this house, with reminders of the two of them everywhere, I cannot seem to break myself out of my selfish bubble of focusing on them. These little souls I carried inside of me for nearly a year each, the babies I poured my hopes and dreams and love into. The children that gave me a purpose, an identity, a second chance to make right any wrongs that may have occurred in my own foalhood. It’s simply impossible to focus. But I hope that my granddaughter and daughter-in-law are okay. I’m no monster. I am hoping and praying and worrying for them too, but on the level of my consciousness, I cannot stop worrying for my babies.

The rough wood of the doors is under my hooves, and I’m slowly sliding to the floor. I didn’t notice until I felt the carpet of the rug in the hall touching my underbelly. My hooves are still touching their doors, and I’m sobbing now, weeping with everything I have, as my body shakes and trembles with my cries of grief. Interspersed with memories of my children is one single prayer. The prayer any mother would make in this sort of situation.

Take me instead. Don’t take them. Please let my babies come back to me.

My mouth says something akin to this over and over. “I want my babies!”

A shaky hoof reaches out to pat me. In the throes of my grief I jerk in surprise. Mrs. Shy is sitting next to me, tears delicately sliding down her own face like some saddened porcelain angel. A thought unrelated to any of this enters my mind: I’ll never be that beautiful or elegant when I cry. It doesn’t stop my tears or sobs, and passes a quarter of a second after entering my mind.

We cry together for what seems like forever. My gulping, heaving sobs and cries of anguish, and her soft, whimpering cries of grief that somehow are worse than my own. We hold each other, knowing that we’re all the comfort each other has in the world at this moment, and we need to take advantage of it. We need each other desperately, because at least two of our children are together and we feel better knowing that we are too. It’s a connection to them as much as it is a connection to one another- to somepony who understands exactly what the other is going through.

Eventually, we don’t have any more tears to cry. We breathe raggedly, trying to catch our breaths as we sit in my hallway on that horrifically stained white shag rug that’s been there to see the births of my babies, their growing up, their moving out, their ascension to power, and now, possibly, their demise. It’s a disgustingly morose thought, but it insists to me to be acknowledged or else it will not leave.

There was no question in my mind that if my children were dead, I would want to be too. What life is worth living when you lose the purpose in it? Besides, if they were dead, it would mean Sombra would have won, and that we’d all be slaves to his will. Not me. I would rather die as myself than forty years from now as a slave to a stallion who murdered my babies.

My whole body is trembling and I feel hollow inside, but somehow I finally find the strength to stand when my breathing is under control. My magical aura envelops the doorknob to my son’s room, but I don’t turn it. I’m hesitating for fear of falling into my grief again. Mrs. Shy nods encouragingly to me, putting a hoof on my shoulder, and I open the door.

Everything is the same as when he left it. His ant farm on the dresser, the comics on the bookshelf, the train set on the rug he’d loved to play with at five, and Brutus Force, his beloved stuffed companion that he couldn’t sleep without for well over a decade. I walk over to his bed, smoothing out the covers, and I sit down, pulling the stuffed toy into my hooves with the most minimal of smiles for the good memories it brought me. I know Mrs. Shy is in the doorway, so I speak to her.

“My Shiny never slept a night without Brutus until he was almost eleven.” I tell her. “Shiny was premature by three months, and they didn’t know if he was going to make it. I didn’t get to hold him before they took him away to the NICU. But he was allowed to have a stuffed animal with him in the incubator. Brutus Force was the one I set in the corner to keep an eye on him for me. He loved that doll.”

Mrs. Shy’s hoofsteps are muffled by the carpet, but I hear them. “My Zephyr Breeze, he had a lamb he used to carry around with him as a little boy. Lammy Pie. He stopped sleeping with that Lamb when he was maybe seven. I believe his words to me were, “It’s not cool anymore, Mom.”. But every so often when I’d check on him at night, I’d see that lamb on another pillow. Not often, but enough for me to know he still loved it.”

I smile a bit more at the story. “Boys, huh?”

She smiles a bit. “Yes.”

“We’re always teaching them to be tough, and to be able to fix everything, and rushing them from foalhood it seems. Maybe not us personally, but society itself. Why do we do that? Why can’t we cherish and hold onto that little boy innocence when we know that someday it’s going to be gone?” I say, using my hoof to stroke Brutus’ head.

Mrs. Shy contemplates my words, reflects on them. “I have to wonder if we as women do it because occasionally we need a Stallion in the home and unfortunately that role occasionally falls to them under certain circumstances. But in typical circumstances, I think it’s more the husband’s doing than ours. They’re waiting for their boys to grow up so that they can have a buddy.”

I shake my head in distaste. “It’s a screwed up world. We should have never let them grow up and enter it.”

She doesn’t say anything, but her silence says everything I need to know. She’s imagining the same thing I am- what it might have been like if our sons hadn’t lost that innocence so young. A few more years of cuddling them in our laps, many more nights of tucking them into bed and reading stories, and feeling like we could still fix things for them because we were still so much a part of their world. The idea makes me smile, but when I open my eyes again, not realizing I’d closed them, reality seeps in and reminds me that that is only a pipe dream all mothers have. Children never growing up and needing us always.

I want to escape the sadness before it can sink it’s teeth into me again, and I rise, making my way from Shining Armor’s old room to Twilight’s.

Her room is still the way she left it too. The bookshelves that nearly touch the ceiling are crammed full of books she loved to read. The desk by the window is still neat as a pin, with everything organized and color coated from the sticky notes to the highlighters in a cup that matched the color of the desk. “To keep it consistent.” she’d told me at six years old. A smile crosses my face at the memory.

I go to the bookshelf, where the books that shaped my daughter’s childhood are neatly kept. All is in it’s rightful place and kept tidy. There is only one book showing it’s age, and I carefully remove it from it’s place and half expect my daughter to yell at me for messing up her organized shelf. It disappoints me when she does not appear.

I look down at the book. Gusty The Great. The book is tattered and pages are nearly falling out. I run a gentle hoof over it, as if trying to give it some comfort about it’s worn appearance.

“Twilight must have had me read this book every night for a year.” I say, sensing Mrs. Shy behind me. I recall being annoyed by reading that book to her all the time, and it leaves a bad taste In my mouth now. What I wouldn’t give to read it to her right now. “Even when she got older, she used to ask me to read this book to her when she was sick. She asked me to read this book and make her some noodle soup every time. It made me feel good to know that even after all that time, I could still make her feel better.”

I look up from the cover of Gusty The Great to see Mrs. Shy smiling softly. “I used to tell Fluttershy the story of Mage Meadowbrook’s mask. I never would have guessed my little filly would actually get to meet her. Isn’t life funny that way?”

“It is. I always worried about my daughter making friends growing up, but now she’s the Princess Of Friendship. It may have taken her a while, but she finally got what I tried to teach her as a filly: We all need friends.” I smiled at her.

Mrs. Shy put a hoof on my own. “Remember when it seemed like our girls never really understood what we tried to get across to them, and you just wished that they could see themselves through your eyes so they could understand just how incredible they were?”

I smile. “I’m still waiting for Twilight to realize how amazing she is, honestly.”

“I’m waiting for that with Fluttershy too.” She says. Though it wasn’t spoken, there was third thing we were both waiting for, that every mother waits for, for their daughter to become a best friend and a companion. The emergence was nearly complete for both of them but not quite. Some small detail was still missing for them. I could tell we both hoped they’d figure it out. A comfortable silence stretches between us for a few moments. Then: “For what it’s worth, I’m glad our daughters became friends. They’ve helped each other grow so much. And if they hadn’t met, we wouldn’t have either. I’m glad to have you as my friend, Velvet.”

My smile is soft but sincere. “Me too. Especially at times like these.”

We embrace one another in both friendship and solidarity. The old saying was really true- in times of crisis, you know who your real friends are. We sat there a moment, and I whispered to her. “I’m still scared for them. Do you think they’ll be okay?”

“They have to be.” Her voice is tremulous and I think she’s going to cry again. “They’ve come too far not to make it now.” I wonder to myself if she really believes that or is trying to convince herself of it. Either way, the words were indeed comforting to me. It reminded me of what I already believed in- that my children were destined for greatness, and that they had both come so far, that there was simply no way that they’d come that far to fail.

After a moment or two I pulled away. Mrs. Shy, remarkably, held her composure. “Let’s go finish our tea.” I told her.

We went back out to my living room. After all of the crying and exchanging of memories, the tea was lukewarm. I decided to dump mine, rinse out my cup, and make a cup of Twilight’s chamomile tea. Even though I wasn’t tired, the soothing effects of it would most certainly be welcome to my frayed nerves. I simply boiled some water in a small pan and poured it into my teacup, stuck the bag in and watched the clear water turn a dark gold color. When that was done and it was strong enough for my liking, I tossed the teabag out and rejoined Mrs. Shy on the couch.

Though there was absolutely a release in finally weeping over our shared worry for our children, the sense of foreboding about their individual fates still hung in the air. We attempted to make conversation about other unrelated topics, but it was stilted, not meaningful. We were both skirting the question neither of us dared to voice. What’s going to happen to them? Trying to avoid it only made that horrid sense of something bleak on the horizon worsen, like a black cloud above us that couldn’t be busted.

We knew in our mutual wisdom, that to ask a question neither of us could answer for the other sincerely, without giving platitudes or false hope, wasn’t good for anything except decimating our mood. So we purposely avoided it because we were both aware, I think, that one more emotional blow would destroy us both.

Time was so funny to us in the time we’ve been in my home. When I was staring into the fireplace, I’d had no sense of time. I seemed to be, from my perspective, a mare outside the flow of time, in a sort of limbo. When I’d made our tea I hadn’t paid attention to time but had occasionally felt the brush of it’s passing against my shoulder. When I’d broken down and cried, time had seemed to be on fast forward and rewind at the same time for me, as old memories came through my head and thoughts of the potentially horrible future ripped through at lightning speed. And now, sitting together, time seemed to pass infinitely slowly. Like a slug on the ground trying to crawl a mile in one day and taking two weeks to make the distance.

I’ve always been fascinated by the flow of time. Maybe it’s the years of late night writing, or always having to meet a deadline. Maybe it’s my daughter’s obsession with schedules. But it’s always seemed to me that time is, in most cases, the enemy. There’s a lack of it, too much of it, you can’t stop it or freeze it when you want to, and when it decides to do that it’s usually during moments in your life you wish you could just skip over completely. But I see now, in this endless waiting period, that perhaps time is just like life- it goes on, neither loving or hating us. It is our perception of it that gives it such influence. Perhaps the reason we have memories is so that even though we cannot freeze time, we can freeze the most precious moments of our lives in our memories and keep them forever while still living our lives.

I remember every moment with my children. I can remember the scent of each of them as if they were right here with me. I remember the sounds of their laughter as children. I can recall holding them in my arms as babies, and how perfectly they seemed to fit there, as though my arms were shaped especially to hold them. I remember the light in their eyes when they were happy, and the feeling of completeness they have always given me.

In having those children, I found a purpose greater than one my cutie mark could ever give me. In having Shining and Twilight, I found that I had born two souls who influenced the greater good with what they did with their lives, and they might not have gotten there without me. If I hadn’t written adventure stories that Shiny loved as a colt, if I hadn’t taught Twilight the value of knowledge and reading at such a young age, who knows where Equestria might be now? There is cashmere comfort in that. I have the knowledge that no matter what happens, I changed our world by raising two great kids. I succeeded at the one mission every parent holds dear- to raise good kids. No matter what else happens, in that sense, I am complete.

I try not to look at the clock resting on the fireplace mantle too often. That old miniature grandfather clock was one Night Light won in a game of bingo a year before Shining was born and has been a staple of the house ever since. It chimes once on the half hour and twice on the hour. It will tell me when a significant amount of time has passed, so I shouldn’t worry myself with it.

There have been twelve chimes from the clock since the sky blackened in total. Four grueling hours of the most terrible kind of misery one might imagine. Mrs. Shy came to me at the sixth chime. We’ve spent half the time the blackness descended together, a mere two hours, and yet it feels as though we have both been sitting in this living room for decades. Time doesn’t age ponies as much as worry does. I glance at my friend and see her eyes looking two decades older than she actually is. I look at me in the reflection of a mirror or a shining surface and it seems that the purple streaks in my mane are growing thinner by the second as the white portions try to overtake it.

Mrs. Shy and I are hunkered down together here. We are, I believe, waiting either for our children to return or give some form of communication that they are alright, or to be captured alongside them. I’m unsure of which is worse at this point- false hope, or grim realities. We talk to try and fill the silence with something other than our internal screaming, but somehow, no matter what we were talking about before, the subject always goes to our fear for our children.

It takes the audible growling of my stomach to realize that we should eat something. I make daffodil and daisy sandwiches- Twilight’s favorite- and pretend not to notice that when I serve them to both of us. When we finish there are half-eaten sandwiches with bite marks in them sitting on plates on the coffee table. Neither of us were very hungry but we ate for the sake of silencing our shrieking stomachs and because somewhere, subconsciously, we felt a need to show our children, however far away they might have been, that we were being strong for all of them.

Chiming. Another six chimes total. Six hours have gone by, a whole quarter of a day. Our thoughts are growing bleaker with the passage of every moment. We never speak this aloud, but our eyes convey everything that words cannot. We’ve taken to squeezing each other’s hoof when the need to be silent proves too strong to resist, to reassure the other that we’re still there, sitting with them, staying strong for them. The flames in the fireplace are still dancing, but not as lithely as they did in the morning. I don’t have the heart to put it out. It’s magical thinking perhaps, but I worry that to put that fire out would be dousing the light of hope inside of myself that my children are going to be alright.

We do not think anything of particular importance will happen this hour- it has been the same as any hour thusfar, so why would we think differently now?- But that all changes when we see the sky finally lighten, and ponies begin to walk the street outside of my home without a uniform march. My heart leaps into my throat, and I glance at my friend. We don’t need to speak to know we’re thinking the same thing.

Could this mean it’s over?

I scramble to my hooves, making a mad dash for my writing room, grabbing two scrolls, two quill and ink sets, and I dash back to the living room. I give Mrs, Shy a scroll, and she begins to write- not furiously, but with great purpose and intent behind the task. Meanwhile, I’m scribbling things down so fast I’m amazed my quill hasn’t caught fire. Remarkably, we finish at the same time. I roll up the scrolls, and use my magic to send them. Twilight and Spike are always inseparable, I’m sure She and Fluttershy will get the scrolls. At least, that’s what I tell Mrs. Shy.

Once unable to move, I now can’t stop moving. I’m keyed up, the anxiety stemming from my hope of seeing my children transforming into energy that I need to burn off or it will make me explode. Mrs. Shy seems a bit more nervous, even jumpy. It’s such a change from the rather grounding presence she’s been to me today. Though I’m moving and she’s still, I can tell we’re both praying the same prayer.

Let them come home to us.

Time yet again becomes the enemy to us, as seconds crawl by agonizingly slowly, and I’m nearly about to scream from frustration when a scroll pops into existence on the coffee table. We both inhale, gasping so sharply it sounds like we just came from swimming underwater. I lunge for the couch and use my magic to unfurl the scroll. It’s from Fluttershy. She and Twilight and Shining Armor are all okay, She’ll be going to find Zephyr Breeze shortly, and they will all convene at my home as Mrs. Shy and I begged of them.

We both finish the letter at the same time, and we can’t fight our tears. We hug each other tightly, sobbing our relief into the air.

“They’re all okay. They’re safe.” She says.

“Thank you, Celestia.” I say, choking on a sob.

I don’t know how long we stay that way, clutching one another like two fillies during a thunderstorm. But it’s long enough for us to begin thinking we should clean up before our children get here. I throw out the sandwiches while she washes the teacups, and then I scrub the plates. She puts things away.

Just as we finish, the doorbell rings.

I’m completely unashamed to admit that I ran for that door like rabid lion chasing down a juicy rare steak. Mrs. Shy flew faster than I’d ever seen her fly. I yanked the door open with my magic at three quarters of the way there, and saw my children and her her children, along with my daughter-in-law, granddaughter, and Spike, and my husband too. It was undoubtedly the most beautiful thing I had ever seen in my life.

Twilight and Shining were in the front of the line, and I threw my hooves around them, sobbing in relief, kissing their cheeks and breathing in their scents and telling them that if they die, they’d better make sure I die first somehow, because I am not living without them. They hug me, and tell me they’re fine, but I notice little things. A slight indent on son’s muzzle, the bags under my daughter’s eyes. A mother always notices the toll these things take on her children.

“You both are staying here tonight. I’m not taking no for an answer.” I say as seriously as I have ever said anything. I look to Cadence, Flurry, and Spike. “That means you three too.” I say, and they all smile at that seemingly.

My children, smart as they are, agree without protest. I hug them, and finally turn to Mrs. Shy. She’s stroking Fluttershy’s mane as she holds her, and whispering something to Zephyr Breeze. Her face is the picture of calm maternal bliss. I smile at that, and she seems to sense my looking at her, because she smiles alongside me.

We both cook for our families. We ate lunch, but obviously the children haven’t, and nor has my daughter-in-law, granddaughter, or Spike. We all gather ‘round the dinner table, talking. Everypony seems to scoot closer together. My son is on my left, my daughter on my right. They scoot closer to me, and Cadence scoots herself and Flurry closer to Shining, while Spike is so close to Twilight he’s nearly in her lap. Fluttershy and Zephyr seem to do the same with their mother.

Whether it’s because they were trying to comfort us, or they needed us to comfort them, I don’t think either of us can say. All I know is at the table that day, we were each reminded of the importance of family, and what we held most dear. We were reminded of the joy children bring to our lives. And we are still reminded that though our children are grown, they still need us in ways we cannot explain, just like we need them.

It’s the circle of love, and the circle of life. And I couldn’t be more grateful for it.