like mother, like daughter

Lolita Monroe · 01-03-2012, 12:03 AM

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508 words.

There was little to be said for the mothering skills of the creamy-hued shepherd-wolf. She had hardly been the healthiest canine during her pregnancy; she had smoked the entire time and she had consumed alcohol for more than half of the duration before she had realized what was happening with her body. It was to be expected, of course, that she would not know the signs of pregnancy. Her mind had thought her body had been trapped in an eternal state of being too young, having been murdered by her brother when she was less than a year old. She had never been taught what it meant to be a parent and what one could, or should, expect from their child, or parent, alike.

So was it so far of a stretch to claim that she had failed her three daughters? Perhaps not Poppy, having doted on her for her entire life more than her other daughters, but Magnolia and Foxglove... She had gone wrong with them, she knew. If she had been a better mother, her silver daughter might have chosen to go with her and the other two when she had left Dahlia de Mai; she should never have given them the choice between their mother and their father. Foxglove had left when she was only just shy of four months old, and she should not have let her.

Neither had kept in touch, nothing short of what was expected. Lolita could not read nor write, and if either of her estranged daughters could, it was not something that she had taught them. They would have had to learn it from someone else in their travels. Poppy could read a bit, but the mother could not be bothered to learn. With no real method of keeping in touch, she had not seen or heard from Magnolia or Foxglove since the separate days that she had said good bye to them.

Her rust and white daughter had worried about her wandering so far in her condition, but Lolita did not appreciate being told what to do, and so she had made the journey alone, stopping frequently to rest her tired body. This was what she was doing now, sitting back against a thick tree trunk with her slender hands resting on the bulge of her swollen abdomen.

She hummed softly to herself as she thought of the wonder of it. The impossible had happened a second time; she had become pregnant again, and though she did not remember the circumstances of the conception, she was happy. Poppy would help her raise them in the pack of Hungarians that they had taken up with, the band of wolves she had spent so much time with before she had even come to Dahlia de Mai. It had not been her intent, but she knew where she was traveling. Her movements had taken her closer and closer to Nova Scotia, and though she was not there yet and her purpose was not clear, she recognized that as her destination now.

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