Disclaimer: I don't own things other people own.
A famous philosopher from his Papa's - no, France's lands- by the name of Voltaire once called him, "quelque arpents de neige." Or as the English would say it, "A few acres of snow."
Canada never really thought about himself that way. He was still a young nation, and bursting with potential. He was one of the major trading pieces of the Treaty of Paris, so he must be of at least some importance.
He was quite sure of that when he quietly snuck out of his room one night to get a drink. England had went through the same bedtime schedule, waiting for him to get under the covers, before blowing out the candle and shutting the door behind him.
As Canada walked past America's door, he noticed that the door was slightly ajar, and the room was illuminated by a candle, giving it a cozy glow.
And America, curled up beneath the blankets, was listening to England read him a bedtime story.
"After they were read, I was demanded to swear to the performance of them; first in the manner of my own country, and afterwards in the method prescribed by their laws; which was, to hold my right foot in my left hand, and to place the middle finger of my right hand on the crown of my head, and my thumb on the tip of my right ear," England read from his book.
"So Iggy, is it like this?" America's right foot shifted, dragging his blankets upward, and his right hand went to his face, with his middle finger on top of his head and his thumb on his ear.
England laughed, "Yes, precisely so."
America made a face. "Those Lilliputians are so weird."
None of them noticed Canada standing by the door, peering inside.
Of course no one would read him a story.
Of course no one would care if he wanted someone to read a story to him.
Of course no one would care about what he has to say.
His eyes began to burn, and a teardrop rolled down his cheek, then another. They fell to the floor with a barely audible plink.
He was nothing to France, just useless territory that couldn't do anything. France had sold him for the sugar island of Guadeloupe.
He was only a strategic piece of land to England, one that could easily be given up.
He was just a string of French colonies up north to America; bleak, austere, and absolutely boring.
As Canada curled his fingers around his shirt and cried, he couldn't help but think that Voltaire was right.
Maybe he was nothing more than just a few acres of snow.
The book England read to America was Gulliver's Travels by Jonathan Swift.
I hope the angst was good enough.