October, 25th

Bessy:

Phil has been never more focused than now. He still doesn't enjoy contact sports but he's surprised everyone at swimming. Being on the smaller side he's not exactly dominant of course, but he has focus. Gumption. He doesn't give up. I didn't know this about my son.

He's also drawing like possessed. One volunteer staff at the daycare is an art student, and she's teaching Phil technique. She leaves out creativity and that at first drove Phil mad. "I want to draw like Picasso!", he would yell with his little fist up. "I want to paint like Van Gogh!". But this girl knows what she's doing; she's giving him the tools for him to go his own way.

For his ninth birthday Margaret sent him a big and heavy box of art supplies he doesn't allow anyone touch. I was curious at first and he showed me the contents, on condition that I kept my hands to myself.

I laughed though I see his point. It'd be a shame to find his pencils used for scrabbling notes, wouldn't it?

Frederick:

Olivia's fourth month finds her strong and beautiful. Her amazing gummy, drooly smile and big eyes light up my day. I forgive her the loss of sleep, the hair pulling, the smelly diapers. This just makes it worthwhile.

My sister still hasn't met her niece. She's been sick and not fit to travel, and of course, who wants to expose a small baby to the walking catalogue of diseases my sister's been in the past few months?

We hope we'll see her soon, though. We'll spend Christmas and New Year's eve in London, and then bring her along with us to spend a couple of weeks in Cádiz. I'm not sure what to expect and I keep my mind open for options.

Dolores says Margaret's been writing very little and is worried about her. Who wouldn't?

Edith:

Little Ian Shaw Lennox, my son, turns seven weeks old today. He's so cute and healthy! I'm fortunate to have a good nanny, and since I'm not breastfeeding my body is going back to what it used to be. Not one stretch mark! Wonderful!

Along with my mother we're taking care of Margaret, although I don't let her held Ian. She had fungi in her hands, by God's sake. But she takes it well. We're going on a shopping trip to Paris and Milan; it's the best mother and daughter activity we have, and we'll buy things for my cousin too.

She's truly sad and it squeezes my heart to think there's little I know I can do. I try to distract her but she only smiles at me patiently and sadly, and I feel like a dumb. But I persist.

Sylvia:

I know I shouldn't call Margaret my daughter and still, in moments like these, I can hardly think of her in other terms. She's down in the dumps, struggling through a very dark moment of her life. I wish she had a partner (a boyfriend, a husband) she could confide on, someone who could... I don't know. Make her happy. Let the light in, reassure that it gets better. That pain like this one will shape the person she'll be from now on but there will be happiness too.

I know it's hard to believe it when you're in her shoes, I know what it is like to lose someone you feel is a part of you. But I also know what it is like to meet the one who gives sense to it all, the one who makes you love life again, like sunshine spreading over your fields.

I keep my hopes for myself. Margaret is barely getting in touch with us and I respect that. She knows she can come by and we'll ask no questions; there's an open invitation for lunch she still hasn't replied.

I just hope it happens soon.