It was the last hour of the last day of school before the Hearth’s Warming holiday. Alone amongst all of her classmates, Lily had to force a smile onto her muzzle and gripped her desk to keep her forelegs from trembling visibly. At least this would likely be her last ordeal before the school break. The only thing left for the class to do was the annual exchange of gifts, done anonymously via slips of paper drawn from a hat.
The gift exchange always made her nervous. Everypony knew how poor her family were, and so the least expensive gift in the exchange would automatically be attributed to her. Worse though was how some ponies reacted to her gift. She always tried her best to get something worth having, but sometimes she wasn’t able to scrounge enough pocket money to buy something any of her classmates would like. It isn’t fair, she thought, but this was Canterlot after all, and most of her classmates were relatively well off compared to Lily.
Looking at Mr. Buckwheat’s desk, the gift she had gotten wasn’t obvious from its packaging. She had done some work at Mrs. O’Mare‘s thrift shop and so had been given a really nice gift bag and even a bow to put on top! It sat nicely next to the largest gift on the desk, a box tagged with the number eight in Mr. Buckwheat’s tidy hornscript.
The gift Lily had provided had the number fourteen on its tag. Its content was a little Hearth’s Warming diorama she had assembled from various parts at the thrift store. It was the best that she had been able to manage this year, and she was actually quite proud of how it had turned out. She hoped whichever of her classmates received it would find a place for it in their home.
Lily had almost decided not to give it in the gift exchange. After she had assembled it, she realized it showed a family of ponies that had the same coats and mane colors as her mother, her father and herself. The mother in the diorama even looked a bit like her mother, delicately thin, but still pretty. The stallion wasn’t too far off how she remembered her dad: tall and spindly, with ears that stuck out almost like a donkey’s. And the foal was more normally proportioned, just as Lily was herself. But when came the day of the exchange Lily had nothing else that she could give, so reluctantly, she packed it up and brought it to school that morning.
She tried to avoid looking at the filly in the desk in front of her, Starshine. Reputedly from one of the wealthiest families in Canterlot, she lost no occasion to tease, embarrass, or even bully Lily, even though she tried her best to avoid Starshine and her clique.
Finally, it was her turn. She stood, which placed her next to Starshine’s desk, the nearest one to Mr. Buckwheat’s.
Starshine leaned close and gave her the stare. “We haven’t seen any trash gifts yet,” she whispered from behind a perfectly lacquered blue hoof. “Yours hasn’t been picked, I guess. I bet it will end up back in the trash where it came from!”
Lily pretended she hadn’t heard, and it looked liked Mr. Buckwheats hadn’t either, or simply chose not to call Starshine out and ruin the classes enjoyment of this last hour of school before the holiday. He held out the hat with the slips of paper, and Lily picked one out, unfolding it slowly.
“Come on now, Lily, read your number out loud,” he said. She could hardly see him over the gifts piled high on his desk.
“Eight!“ she called out, eyeing the box on Mr. Buckwheat’s desk that had that number stuck onto it. She was hoping to get something nice to show her aunt when she got home from school. She might even put it under tiny Hearth’s Warming tree her aunt took out from the big closet in her bedroom every year at this time. That way, this year if any pony asked, she could say without lying that she had gotten “a few” presents under the tree. It’s not that wanted to brag about how many presents she had received, like Starshine did every year in the lead-up to Hearth’s Warming Eve. No, it would just really be nice if she didn’t have to either lie about it when class resumed after the holidays, or else get those pitying looks from her classmates when they thought she wasn’t looking, often accompanied by whispers from behind little hooves about how poor she and her family were.
“Well, open it up!” said Mr. Buckwheat with a smile.
She placed her fore-hooves on his desk and leaned in over the numbered box. Each student was supposed to open the present in front of the whole class. Gingerly, she nipped the ribbon with her muzzle and lifted off the box’s lid. Several of her classmates gasped when she pulled out the most amazing bright red saddlebags!
Her heart skipped a beat. The rules of the class gift exchange limit the gifts values, which rules had obviously been overlooked in this case. This was made obvious by the way Mr. Buckwheat’s smile faltered for a moment. Her ears sank as her teacher glanced in the direction of Starshine’s desk. Would he take the saddlebags away?
“Well,” he said. “I think I will have to remind certain parents about our rules. But what’s done is done. Lily, please take the gift to your desk. Next is Lorenzo…”
She trotted back to her desk to envious looks from every pony in class except Startshine, who scowled openly. As Lily passed her on the way back to her desk she whispered loud enough for all nearby classmates to hear. “Pity,” she said, “my gift was wasted on a pony who couldn’t possibly appreciate it!”
Lily felt a blush of both anger and embarrassment, as she plopped into her seat.
“Starshine, it’s your turn”, called Mr. Buckwheat, still holding the hat.
The blue filly picked a slip and called it out. “Fourteen!”
Lily’s heart skipped a beat. Not her!
Starshine snatched the gift bag from the desk with her horn field, and while it still floated in front of her she tore the gift bag in two with both forehooves, revealing the diorama floating where everypony could see.
There was absolute silence in the classroom as Starshine took in the gift. A look of disgust briefly flashed on her muzzle, to be immediately replaced by a more neutral expression. She spun away from Mr. Buckwheat to face the class. Her eyes narrowed as they focused on Lily.
“Good!” she said, a thin smile on her lips. “I know just what to do with this.”
Lily felt heart sink all the way down into her stomach.
Lily’s classmates rushed out the room and into the hall, most grabbing hats, scarves and winter clothing, before galloping out the door as Mr. Buckwheat and the other teachers waved and wished their departing students happy holidays.
Lily was one of the last foals to exit the school. The red saddle bag was neatly packed back in its box, which Lily had recovered from Mr. Buckwhet’s desk after the final bell rang. She balanced it on her back as she trotted into the brisk winter air, only to see Starshine and a few of her close friends lined up across the schoolyard in front of her. She skidded on the snow, managing not to slip and fall before finally stopping.
“Lily,” said Starshine with a smirk. “We wanted to do our own little flame of friendshipceremony. After all, you were kind enough to provide just the thing to use for kindling!” She stepped aside to let Lily see a small assembly of logs, on which sat the diorama. Starshine’s horn glowed, and a small tendril of smoke began curling up from the base of the pyre.
“No!” she shouted, and rushed into the gap, falling to her knees in front of the slowly growing flame. She plunged her muzzle into the smoke, bit down on the solid object in its middle, and pulled it out. She had to close her eyes because of the smoke, and fought to avoid a cough that could make her drop the diorama. Backing away still on her knees she turned away from the fire, tears falling from the corners of her eyes. Her vision cleared to reveal Starshine and her clique trotting out of the school yard, laughing and gesturing in her direction.
Lily stood and brushed the snow off her legs. It was only then that she noticed the box with the saddlebags was no longer on her back. She pivoted in place, scanning the yard around her. There was nothing in the snow other than flaming logs. She wiped the tears from her eyes, and pushed snow onto the small fire until it was properly extinguished. She covered the diorama with her scarf to keep off the snow, placed it onto her back, and began the long trot home.
“Wipe your hooves clean before coming into the apartment!”
Not Hello, not How was your day? Aunt Thistle must be in one of her moods.
Lily used the rag they kept by the door to wipe the slush from the lower parts of her extremities. She winced in pain when she brushed it over her knees, noticing for the first time that she had scratches from her fall. At least the diorama hadn’t been severely damaged. She figured she could easily repair it with a bit of plaster and paint during the holiday.
It was a pretty small apartment. A single room served as living and dining room. There was a small kitchenette and even tinier bathroom. Her aunt kept the bedroom all to herself. Lily slept on the sofa in the main room.
Also, in the main room was a skinny Hearths Warming Eve tree, decorated from a box that her aunt stored in her bedroom closet during the rest of the year. Every year there were fewer decorations as one or two were inevitably damaged in the process of putting up the tree or taking it down. And every year the tree was smaller and skinnier. Her aunt insisted there wasn’t the money to buy anything better because Lily’s upkeep was getting more expensive every year. A month earlier, in one of those moments when Lily and Starshine had been assigned to pair for a phys-ed exercise, the filly has told her that everypony knew that the only reason her aunt kept her was for the monthly foal-support stipend from the Crown. She had denied it vehemently enough for the coach to ask her to pipe down, but for days afterwards, whenever nopony was looking, Lily would break into silent tears, wondering if Starshine could be right.
Lily carefully placed the diorama under the tree. There were three other presents there, one each for herself, one for her aunt (two pairs of woollen leg warmers Lily got from the thrift store), and one for her uncle Bramble (another set of leggings equally from the thrift store).
Her aunt emerged from the bedroom wearing tight dark black shawl over a midnight blue coat, a skeletal presence that only served to make the tiny apartment feel colder. She squinted at the presents under the tree. “What’s that awful thing? Is that what you got in that stupid gift exchange at school? What skinflint parent would let their foal give such trash to a classmate? It’s a disgrace!”
“Well I think it’s really nice,” replied Lily. “The ponies remind me of my mother, my father and me. See?” She held it up to her aunt. Getting closer she noticed the smell of wine on her aunt’s breath. It was unusually early for her aunt to start her drinking. That only happened when she was really upset at something.
Her aunt looked down at the diorama, then back up to Lily’s face, then down again. She sniffed and her eyes grew hard. “Maybe it’s time you learned the truth. What makes you think those ponies look anything like your parents?”
Lily was shocked. Her aunt could get mean but she had never shown signs of being a lier.
“I was old enough to remember them from before they… passed.” She sniffed. “And we have pictures. They did look like these ponies!”
“Hah! That’s what you think!” Her aunt strode to small kitchen table and sat down. Her gaze turned inwards for a moment.
“Every bit.” she said, and looked up to gaze coldly at Lily. “They spent every bit they had. On you.”
Lily was confused. She had fleeting memories of her early foalhood, of happy times and a similar small apartment that seemed hardly bigger or more luxurious in her remaining memories of that time. But she did remember both her parent working hard, one or the other being away form home most of the time, and the old worn clothes they wore when they went out.
“We were never rich. Even you’ve said so!”
“But what I didn’t say was how they got so poor. It was on account of you. And you’re not even a blood relative!”
Lily felt her pulse pounding, as if she had just been in a gallop. As she learned more about ponies and heredity at school, she had been subject to certain doubts and suspicions about how she was different from her parents. But she had managed to repress these feelings as too fanciful to ever be true. At least until that moment.
“What do you mean, not a blood relative?”
Aunt Thistle pointed to the diorama. “Just look at that family? Do you think the foal looks anything like her parents?” She cackled. “Like I said. You ain’t a blood relative.” She chuffed another darker sounding laugh. “And they spent everything they had to get you, the selfish idiots that they were. And when it was finally their turn to get sick, they had nothing left when they needed it most, and they died.”
She rose creakily from her chair. “Get that thing out of my house. It makes me sick!”
Lily stood frozen, clutching the diorama to her chest with one foreleg.
Her aunt stepped closer a raised a hoof as if to strike her.
“I said get rid of it! NOW!”
Lily grabbed the diorama in her muzzle, spun on her rear legs and dashed out of the apartment, slamming the door shut behind her. A moment later she exited the apartment’s main door, the diorama still clutched in her muzzle. Shivering in the the cold air, she galloped into the night.
A scarf fell over her withers. It was only then that she fully noticed where she was: the park nearest to her aunt’s apartment. It had been one of her favourite places since she had moved in with her aunt, a refuge for when she just couldn’t bear the mare’s company, or when their arguments turned bitter.
The huge tree in the centre of the park had been festooned with lights and decorations. The area surrounding it had been flooded, providing the neighborhood a seasonal skating rink, and ponies of all tribes and all ages skated, skidded, and fell, their breath forming small clouds as they laughed and talked and sang along with a Hearth’s Warming choir huddled tightly in the small bandstand in one corner of the park.
Somepony brushed the snow that covered the top of her head between her ears and her mane down along her neck. Through crusted eyes, she saw a shape settle down onto the bench beside her. His gaunt profile was immediately familiar to her. She leaned into the warmth of her Uncle Bramble. He shared an apartment with two other single stallions nearby so she wasn’t surprised he had spotted her in the park.
“I…” she tried unsuccessfully to speak through chattering teeth.
“Hush now,” he put a foreleg around her, and held her close. When her trembling subsided he motioned to the diorama, which she had at some point placed in her lap to protect it from the falling snow. “That’s a lovely piece. Did you build it yourself?”
Lily nodded.
“Well it’s a fine likeness of Beryl, Thorn and you, if you ask me!” He sounded happy and sad all at the same time. “I miss them too.”
“Is it true what she said?” Lily finally found her voice again. “That I’m not a blood relative of mom and dad, that I’m not really theirs, that I’m adopted?”
“Well, sprout, all that doesn’t mean your mom and dad didn’t love you. They loved you with all their hearts, as much as any foal was ever loved by their parents. And you don’t have to take my word for it.” He motioned to the diorama. “It’s obvious that you felt it, and it shows in this little scene you built.”
Lily sniffed. “So why did they adopt me? Couldn’t hey have a foal of their own?”
“They didn’t adopt you, exactly. And they vowed to never have a foal of their own blood.”
“I… I don’t understand.”
Bramble sighed and held her closer.
“I want you to understand something, Lily. It’s something all of us in your parent’s generation don’t talk about. Have you ever wondered why our family look like we do, and why you don’t have any cousins your age?”
Lily shrugged against his side.
“You’ve learned in school about genetics, and how family traits get passed down?”
This time he felt her nod.
“Well, in the village where we come from, there was a bad genetic mutation. It was a really bad one, that affected different ponies differently, and seemed to get worse with each generation. In time, most of the families of the village carried it. If a foal got one copy the gene they grew thin and spindly, and at some point most grew sick very fast and died. Foals who got the gene from both parents usually didn’t live to grade school age. By the time the doctors figured all this out twenty years ago, there were not that many of us left. Ever since, most ponies from the village decided never to have foals and risk passing on this gene. When Beryl and Thorn got married all this was already known, and there was never any question of having a foal of their own.”
“So they did adopt me. But what…” Lily stammered, “… what did Aunt Thistle mean that they spent all their money on me, and had nothing left for when they needed it, and then they died?”
Bramble shuddered, and then forced himself to relax. Lily didn’t need him going ballistic on Thistle right now.
“She said that, did she?”
Another nod.
“Well, your aunt’s tongue is often sharper than her wits. She should never had dropped all that all of a sudden onto you, at least not the way she did. So let me straiten a few things out.”
He took a moment to gather his thoughts.
“First off, you weren’t a conventional adoption. Those are generally free, and don’t have many strings attached, but they do select adoptive parents who have long term prospects of providing a good home for the adopted foal. Because of your parents’ genetic condition, both of them were at risk of their condition becoming fatal at any time, so they were deemed inneligible.”
“But then how…”
“They found a loophole. A certain doctor had conjured a process to implant a pony egg fertilized in vitro into a living mare. It’s a chancy process, and most eggs implants don’t take, so most couples who choose this process have to try many times. And it’s very expensive. Your parents tried six times, before an egg took.”
He squeezed her tight for a moment.
“And that was you. So you see, your mother did indeed give birth to you, but your genes were donated by some other ponies who didn’t have this recessive gene.”
“And this is how they ended up spending all their money? On me?”
“Yeah, sprout. And they never regretted it for a moment. Neither should you.”
“So what did Aunt Thistle mean that they had nothing left for when they needed it?”
Bramble swallowed.
“I told you earlier that the disease could become worse at any time in adulthood. Well, there is a treatment from Zebrica that sometime can keep ponies going. But it’s very expensive. Not too long after you were born, both your parent’s condition took a turn for the worse. But by that time they had already spent almost all their money on getting you. It was just bad luck that their time came sooner than most.”
Tears began falling from Lily’s muzzle onto the diorama on her lap.
“Listen up, sprout.” He lifted her muzzle until she was facing his.
“They wanted something of themselves to live on in this world after they passed on. They gave you a great gift that one day you could have a family of your own free of the burden they had to bear. You were their hope, and you being born to them was their dream. Before they each passed on they told me that they would never change anything that had happened.”
He looked up at the Hearth’s Warming Tree in all its glittering glory. “So honour them by one day building a family of your own, and telling your foals about them, so they’ll live on in your legacy.”
Her foreleg clutched his. “But what about you and Aunt Thistle? Are you going to pass away soon too?”
He shook his head. “Nopony can know for sure when their time will be up, and as long as we live we’ll be there for you. But there was no call for her to tell you that way. I’m going to have a talk with your Aunt Thistle.”
He felt Lily straiten up against his side.
“So Aunt Thistle… she… she’s has had to live with this all these years. Not knowing if…” Lily’s eyes suddenly grew wide.
“Yes.”
Lily rose from the bench and faced him. “And… is this why… is this why she drinks at night? To forget?”
His lips compressed into a tight line. “ Sometimes the weight of our circumstances presses down more heavily on my sister than on me. She certainly is more given to worry than I am. It doesn’t excuse behavior. But, yes.”
Her voice was still shaky, but got stronger with every word she spoke. “Then, Uncle Bramble, maybe we should go home and check up on Aunt Thistle?”
Surprised, he smiled down on his niece, then leaned forward to embrace her in a warm hug.
“Yeah, sprout. I think that’s just what your parents would have wanted. You do them proud!”
“Then let’s go.” She placed the diorama carefully on her back and secured it with her scarf.
Together they trotted slowly back home.
