Mum*

“Don’t worry, mine,” said Domlyskirts over a chat, “Please? For me? Go chat with Mum. You can be open with Mum. Trust me.”

With a happy encouraging pat on my behind from another at the sim, I agreed.

So, I went.

I was scared.

I spoke.

I cried. My shirt was wet with sobs.

“He took your flame,” she said to me.

“He tried, and left an ember,” I replied. “Domlyskirts breathed on it.”

We kept on speaking. My heart poured out. My fear. My love for Domlyskirts. My past hurt. My primal wound.

It felt like for hours. I didn’t feel judged for being broken.

I’m crying now as I write about it.

Then, she took me for an exercise. Gave me fae wings. Told me to fly at the sim she brought me to, so I did.

I found a spot. It looks like it could be part of my happy place. Someone remade my happy place. It wasn’t perfect, but I stopped to look. A hammock, instead of a swing. A babbling brooke. Mum was circling overhead, protecting me.

I found aurorahs too. And I flew as she gave me song after song to queue up as I flew.

I cried. I laughed. I cried again.

“Let’s dance our way back to the sim,” she said.

Domlyskirts was waiting.

“It is always that intense with mum?” I asked.

“Always.”