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*A letter sticks out of the assorted pile*
Letters in a Drawer: To my /Son./
_____You came not from my womb,

___You came not from my womb. Not even from a section of my imagination. My core untouched, and yet you sit demanding food to fill you, attention to be paid to you, and of course, love to be implied in your existence.

___...And I do so, but it pains me to remind you that my production of life is unscathed and lacks the mark of being your parent. The love is there yes, but what of the right? My /son/, forgive me if I am not a proper parent to you due to my assumptions. Forgive me if all I can give you for a meal is soup and a fizzled drink. Forgive me when I tell you to call me by my name and not the tittle you think I deserve. I am simply unsure of how to take the words you gave me, With a grain of salt perhaps?

____Forgive your, /mother/,

_____ ---Blauq.

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