Tempus Fugit
It hurts me to speak of these things now, but I must. Tempus fugit, my dear one. Even now as I write this—cowering in my wagon bed in the foothills outside Carterville, alone but for you, the scratching of my pen and the stamping of horses, eager to be on their way—I grind my teeth against waves of pain and the deep black ache that settles in my limbs and marrow.
The trip to this outpost was not of my doing. I left angry and annoyed. Your father's face—regretful and sad—has haunted me the entire ride. And now, in the pain of my loss, I gave you birth. You will never know how much I wanted you, dearest.
I was to be your mother.
Yet I cannot fulfill my cherished duty to that regard now. So instead, I will gather you close to me, and whisper in your ear: "I love you. I have always loved you."