Thanks for all the great reviews! Even though most of you hate the characters, I'm glad you're sticking with the story. Hopefully things will go your way soon.

I walked quickly down the hallway with Michael, who was toting a practically hysterical Olivia in his arms. Her big brown eyes were now red and squinty as she threw me glares every five seconds.

It's bad enough that my own daughter completely despises me. But did she have to bring The Eyes into it? I loved those eyes!

"I freaked out like this too," I said to the blubbering little figure, desperately attempting to make amends. "I know what you're going through. I mean, I was screaming and crying and wishing I was a penguin…"

Michael threw me a strange look just as Olivia lifted up her head and burned me with The Eyes. One of my few good Michael memories—so down the drain. "You're not my mom and I'm not staying here and I'm NOT talking to you!"

Sweet Lord, she really is mine. Except I so had way more things to bottle up and explode about. I mean, she's just on acquaintance level with Clarisse Renaldo right now. Just wait until she's faced with the flashcards. Good Lord, the flashcards.

To no great surprise, Michael made no move to ingratiate me to our daughter. "How long does it take to find a freaking guest room?"

"I know you're used to rat-infested dumps," I snarked, "but you shouldn't be surprised that things are a bit nicer at a palace."

"You're a lot prettier when you're not being snotty," said Michael shortly, looking any which way but mine.

I stopped in my tracks, staring at him as he continued on without me.

Me, pretty? If he'd look at me enough, he'd see this horrid pantsuit. Or those oversized shifts that make me look way past my prime. Which, come to think of it, I am.

But Michael Moscovitz? 3rd hottest in his class at AEHS? 5th in the HISTORY?

He thinks I'm pretty!

I might have to go brag to Rene later.

If only this weren't the same as the scumbag who desecrated our blissful union by inviting some immoral skank into OUR bed. The very same mattress on which we created the darling little kid that hates my guts!

Or was it that time on his desk at work whenever everyone else was at lunch?

I don't want to even think about how many times he had her at work.

"Where's our room?" called Michael impatiently.

Employing a very-unprincess-like jog, I met up with him and gestured to the door right in front of us. "Here's the nursery."

"Nursery?" said Michael, and the contemptuous look on Olivia's face expressed the same skepticism.

"Well, you'll be down the hall just a ways. But yeah, Olivia's here. Don't worry," I assured them both. "I'm right here next door."

This didn't seem to calm their nerves any. I stood there awkwardly as Olivia whispered into her father's ear. It'll be a miracle if she ever whispers a single word in mine.

"I'm sleeping in the nursery," announced Michael, shifting Olivia to his other hip.

"Uh, no, you're not. Michael, do you know how much I begged for you not to have to sleep in the dungeon! Grandmere would totally flip."

Okay, so we don't have a dungeon. But she wanted him to bunk with Lars, who has got a major foot problem. With the odor of his feet, to be precise.

Michael ignored my pleading and opened the door to the nursery. "I appreciate your efforts, Your Highness," he smirked. "But I think this is the best arrangement."

"But Gran—"

"Grandmere can drag my…bottom out of here if she feels it necessary."

And then he just closed the door behind me.

Fuming by that point, I waited all of ten seconds before barreling in there with full intention of chewing him out.

But I was stopped in my tracks by the scene before me.

Michael lay on the queen-sized (or would it be princess-sized?) bed with Olivia in his lap, holding her close as she sniffled into his shirt front. "Yeah, she's a princess."

"How'd you meet a princess? Are you a prince?"

"Nah," Michael chuckled. "She wasn't a princess when I fell for her. But I dealt with it when it came along. It used to not get in the way so much."

She pressed her golden little head up against his chest. "I don't wanna be a princess. I hate her and I hate this place and I wanna go home. Can we go home tomorrow?"

He was looking far too agreeable for me not to step in and interject. I did feel kind of bad after I cleared my throat. More so for myself than anything. Should a child look that upset to see her own mother?

"Hey…sweetie. Um, I was thinking maybe you might want to go to the beach tomorrow? My cousin Sebastiano's kids will be there. You guys would probably get along great."

"I don't know, Mia," said Michael slowly. "I think we might head home. She knows now, so I'll just explain things further and in a few years, we can talk again. I'm sure you'd enjoy that."

A slight pang in my heart caused me to hesitate for a few seconds. "But you don't even know the full extent of the situation," I said bossily, doing my best to overcome the catch in my throat. I just never knew there were two people out there who absolutely despised me. One even came to that decision within five seconds of meeting me!

But even that's not as awful as the one person who knows everything about me growing to hate my guts.

"She needs to meet the people, and…and…learn about Genovia. Learn how to be a princess. The sooner she takes on the role, the easier it'll be for her to grow accustomed to it."

I tried not to flinch as Olivia burst into tears again. Michael wrapped his arms around her and looked up at me in wonder. "Who are you?"

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Not a thing, Clarisse Jr. Not a thing."

I pulled myself together enough to walk shakily out of the room, trying to block out the sounds of my daughter's muffled sobbing.

Except she's not my daughter. I gave her up in favor of Genovia. I threw it all away.

But it was worth it, wasn't it? They were holding me back. They were spreading me too thin and distracting me from my real duty. I was born to do this. I was made for this task.

Or at least I was molded into someone who can take care of it for me.

I locked myself in my room and curled up on my window seat, gulping and gulping and trying to forget about how cold Michael's eyes where when they deigned to gaze my way. How much of a disappointment I was to Olivia. And, of course, that final blow of Michael's.

He must've known it would sting. After all, he did used to stay up with me all night after Grandmere had done something totally heinous, like fabricate some article on my budding romance with Prince Harry. He saw me cry. He heard me bitch and moan.

And how he's watching me flit around, playing the pretty, pretty princess to the peasants I used to call family.

With a slightly trembling jaw, but determined mindset, I knelt down by my bureau and scooped out the letters once more.

Six letters. One for each year I missed. One for each year that passed while I worked my hardest to blank them out. One times a million for all the times I had to remind myself that I didn't care.

As I was dumping the envelopes back in the drawer, a smaller, slightly more crumpled one fluttered down to the floor.

I stared at the postmark…two and a half years after I left. For once, I had actually managed to block something out.

Without pausing, I tore into the envelope, eager for some sort of idea as to what they'd been up to while I was plastering a smile on my face for the cameras.

The note inside gave me reassurance that I was missed…more than I ever wanted.

I don't know what the deal is. Maybe I've got the wrong address. Maybe you're reading this and laughing. You probably haven't even opened it up. God, Mia, how can you do this? How am I the one crying to the Beach Boys and trying not to get completely pissed before 9 AM? You were the fucking headcase. You were the one who wouldn't listen when I assured you I loved you. You're the one who can't even handle looking at your own daughter. You fucking left her, Mia. 50,000 idiots mean more to you than she ever will. I don't even care any more. When she asks about you, I'm going to tell her the truth. Not some happy-go-lucky fucking lie about you being in a happier place. Because Genovia's a goddamn hellhole and we both know that. No, I'm telling 'the baby' that you cared more for your fucking goddamn piece of shit tiara. I'm telling her that the girl I loved and supported as much as I could decided I wasn't worth it one day. That trying for any sort of relationship was just a bit too much if she were going to sit her bony ass in some goddamn throne without a care in the world.

What did I do anyway? And don't even bring up the girl from work because we both know you were gone long before that happened. I just don't fully grasp how you managed to pull this off. Hey, maybe it's like you and Algebra. Remember when I used to tutor you? When you didn't pick up on the little hints I dropped about being head-over-fucking-heels for you? That's sort of what it's like now, because the goddamn of it all is that I'm not even mad. I'm confused and depressed and angry too, but more at myself than anyone. I need you. Olivia does too. I don't know exactly what I'm supposed to do when she wants to talk about boys or tampons or whatever your domain is. I don't know how we'll handle chick flicks and painting each other's toenails and learning how to ignore Lana Weinberger. I do know that I'm not hoping any more. You're not coming back. You're not paying attention. And you're certainly not on the same page as me.

I'll go this alone, I guess. From here on out, I'm not listening for your key in the lock. I'm not imagining you hogging my pillow. You're no longer going to be the woman in my life.

I'm even blanking on our old plans. Were we ever going to get married? Would Grandmere accept me some time in the next century? Was it all just kinda pointless from the beginning?

I'll write it here then. No more after this. I'm not even going to think about it after this. If I read through this letter, I guarantee it'd be in a million pieces within seconds. So here goes…

I'll miss you, Mia Thermopolis.

I tossed the letter onto the ground and dove onto my bed, burying my blubbering face into the veritable mountain of pillows.

You know what sucks the most? Besides the fact that I alienated the one guy I ever really wanted? He didn't even really apologize. I don't think he ever will.

Just…I don't get it. The Michael Moscovitz I was fairly sure I knew would've apologized to LANA WEINBERGER if he ran into her in the hallway or something. But just because he's under the impression that I've morphed into some clone of my grandmother (God forbid), he's not even going to try and gain forgiveness for the most humiliating event of my life.

That's right. I actually managed to top Josh Richter and the Cultural Diversity dance.

If he had just said "I'm sorry!" He could've sat me down, looked me straight in the eye, and said, "I want to make this work." He could have maybe SUPPORTED me in a role I really had no choice but to fulfill…

But no. He just let it all go. He let me go. Not that I'm this great catch to begin with, but something about Michael's letter signified that I meant something to him.

If I was so goddamned important, then how come the one time he was honest with me was to say "Have a nice life, bitch"? We both knew we were in trouble. So what was so scary about just talking things out? Michael and I were by no means just a sex thing.

But he said goodbye. I said goodbye. Or at least I will now.

The whole problem with shutting out that part of my life is that I kind of can't. Especially not now. I was pretty sure I had for a while, but honestly…why would I have kept all his correspondence? Aren't you supposed to return that stuff, or am I going completely 19th century here?

Never mind that, though. I'm…I'm going to focus on what's important. I'm gonna find out what exactly I shut out.

My fingers tentativelyclosed aroundthe nearest envelope, and I inwardly prepared myself for a very long night.

Don't forget to review!