Disclaimer: I don't own it, etc.

Author's Note: Obviously it's been a while since I've updated (but it always seems to be that way, which is why I guess I chose a continuous drabble story instead of a long-term one. I wrote this while "studying" for an accounting exam I have tomorrow. I'm rusty. I need to get back into my groove, but it's been hard, because I'm also taking a nonfiction writing workshop, which hinders my fiction-writing ability... a lot. My life's very busy - I work 35 hours a week and go to college full-time. I'm tired. But I tried, and I guess that's what matters?

Anyway... I know a lot of people put the blame on Maka's dad for being so flimsy (and I get it), but sometimes in my headcanon, I think, but what about her mom? So... Thank you for all of the reviews last time. :) They inspire me.

The only guidance she receives from her mother is always – unfailingly - in the form of a postcard, and she's never sure what to make of it. Her father's a flake – and a floozy - but somehow, he's always been more reliable and more dedicated to Maka than her mother is, or ever would be.

The postcards travel from nearly every place she can think of: Israel, Chile, Canada, South Africa. Places she can't think of: Easter Island, Ivory Coast, Siberia. The pictures are images she can find on the Internet, in a history textbook. There's no feeling to them, no personalization. She feels almost like they're penpals instead of family.

It's the simplicity and timing of the messages that cement in their ever-growing distance. It's always on her birthday, from a new country, and the words could be for absolutely anyone else in the world.

To my dearest Maka,

I know you are turning eighteen soon. Congratulations on making it this far in life; believe me when I say that's an accomplishment. The world is a dark place, but you are a source of light for those you surround. I feel it in my heart from where I am. You've got an enormous soul; let it shine. I hope to someday see it myself – I bet it's as pure and as beautiful as you.

Remember that your soul is a flower that needs to be cared for just like any other part of your being. It needs water, it needs sunshine, and it needs love. Especially the last one (just don't let a smooth-talker fool you like one did to me).

I wish I was there to guide you. I really do. I know you need a mother, especially at this age. And I'm sorry you don't have one with you.

You see, Maka -

The rest is ruined, and that's what makes this year different from the rest. Maka feels like a large part of her letter is missing, like she's halfway through a novel and the pages with the pivotal plot point have been ripped out. She huffs in aggravation and pins it to her corkboard along with all the others, observes the cheesy sunset over the Egyptian sea with disinterest and makes her way to the breakfast table to go about her day like she never read the disastrous postcard at all.

But still, the words rattle around in her head like bones.

I know you need a mother...

Of course she doesn't, she's Maka. She's never needed her mother before and she certainly doesn't now. And for that matter, she needs no father, either. She's always been fine on her own. Always.

She wonders why her eggs taste so bad today. It has nothing to do at all with raising herself, and everything to do with her looming mid-terms, she tells herself, over and over, until that reason is consumed by the smudged letter.

I know you need a mother...

No, I don't, Maka replies in her head. No, I definitely don't, she thinks again and again until she can think no more and her voice and her mother's meld into one jumbled mess in her head.

When she needed to go bra shopping the first time, she called Tsubaki (she's almost expert in this department). When she needed makeup tips, she reluctantly talked it over with Liz (and scary though it was, Kid). Fashion advice came from all the girls she knew (aside from Patty, who suggested footy pajamas). She's resourceful, too, of course – natural remedies for cramps and migraines came from online and magazines so chock-full of ads she begun to wonder if there were any articles in them at all.

"Maka?"

A familiar voice snaps her with the violence of an elastic band from her reverie.

"Mmm?" she mutters in half-hearted response as she flips another page of her book, which she's suddenly forgotten the title of. Her nostalgia-glazed jade eyes match his ruby-red ones near-instantaneously in the eventide light as he steps into her room.

"What do you want for dinner? It's your turn to pick."

She's not sure if it's maybe because she's turning eighteen next week and her hormones fluctuate as often as the wind changes direction, or maybe if it's because he's already eighteen and ten times taller than he was when she first met him, or maybe it's just that she realizes she's known him almost her whole entire life, or maybe it's his alabaster hair glittering dimly in the hazel glow of the dying Nevada sun – or maybe it's everything combined, but, she blushes furiously and can only give him a feeble reply of, "Pizza."

He raises an eyebrow and snorts. "What? Are you kiddin' me? What an uncool thing to ask for."

"You said I could have anything I wanted."

"I said it was your turn to pick. Not mutually exclusive."

"'Mutually exclusive'? Since when do you talk like that?"

He shrugs.

Maka feels like she's missed out on a part of his life, somehow. A huge part. She sighs, closes her book, and slides it onto her nightstand. She doesn't remember when he started to speak like that. Like an adult. Or maybe he changed right here, in this apartment, and she was just too wrapped up in her childish worries all these years to really care. Or maybe she noticed and she didn't want to acknowledge it, that they were both becoming different people but still sharing the same space – the one constant in their relationship, this threadbare house.

Again, it's like a novel with the important pages torn free, floating somewhere in Death City, far, far away from her reach. Just like her mother.

Almost imaginary.

"Maka?"

The meister thinks again of the words on the postcard: "I know you need a mother."

Slowly, she senses the truth in them. She wants to know why it is her heart does a jive when she sees him, even though she sees him at least twenty times a day. She wants to know why even when he's dozing off on their couch with spittle oozing from between his sharp teeth she's not grossed out but endeared. She wants to know why when he's sick (very rarely) she wants to care for him. She wants to know why she wants to crawl into bed with him at night, and share dreams.

Actually, she knows. She just wants to confirm. She just wants to talk about this blossoming love (that's actually been blossoming an awful long time) with someone who'd understand completely. With someone unbiased. That's never been an option.

Her soul twists like a ribbon and she becomes cognizant of the fact that he can feel it, too. And she becomes aware, too late, that he's sitting beside her on the bed with his firm, calloused hand on her soft, sun-pinkened shoulder.

"S-Soul?"

"Maka, tell me what's been bothering you. You've been moping since this morning and it's been bothering me." His ruddy glare unsettles her in every way. She leans away, which only draws him closer.

"I'm fine," she retorts, as stubborn as he.

"Then why are you cryin', idiot?"

"I... I am?"

She reaches toward her left eye, and feels it – the droplet of salted water teetering on the top of her cheekbone. "Ah," she says, on the edge just like the tear. About to drop down, down – even further away from all the missing pages of the important people in her life floating high above her head. "No. I... I can explain."

He waits so patiently, and so lovingly, it almost breaks her entirely; a vase full of fresh flowers hitting concrete. Everything scatters at once – the water, the stems, the petals. Everything inside of her moves away so fast she can't catch any of them.

"I can explain," she shouts, just before the sobbing starts and gives her such severe tremors it's like the whole bed is shaking. "I got a letter from my mother this year."

"You get one every year," he uselessly points out.

"But that's exactly the point!" She takes a sniveling, labored breath. "Every year, it's the same, sentimental bullcrap! Maka, my dear, dear daughter, you have a beautiful soul, keep it alive – blah, blah, blah! If she really cared, wouldn't she be here? I know it seems like my father is the coward, but isn't it really my mother? She ran from all her problems! She left me behind!" Maka puts her head in his lap, and lets the sorrow flow freely onto his old sweatpants, in this old house, with an old wound reopened. "She left me on my own. I need my mother. I need her. I thought I didn't, but I do."

Soul says nothing, but it's fine that way. He brushes the soaked, ash-blonde hairs away from her bloodshot eyes and traces lazy circles on her heaving back.

After she starts to settle down, drowsiness filling the vacancies her tears left behind, he finally whispers, "You're okay without her. And you do have a beautiful soul."

"It doesn't mean I like it."

He chuckles. "I understand."

And she knows he does, somehow.

"Okay. Thanks, Soul."

"Thank me with some pizza."

"When I wake up," she murmurs as she starts to sleep.

You see, Maka -

Your beautiful soul is what will carry you through life (it does have wings, you know), and that is why you need to care for it, and that is why you won't actually ever need me (whether you want me or not). Not only do you radiate warmth to those who need it, but you will also attract friends who will take care of you, because that's the kind of person you are.

You're the kind of person who can find and bring out the best in others.

Especially the one you eventually will come to love. Yours will be a love so strong you won't quite know how to handle it, and that's okay; it's okay to be confused about it. Because you're also the kind of person who can solve almost any problem in life. You're the opposite of me, and that's a wonderful thing. You'll know what I mean someday, whether you figure it out now, at eighteen, or when you're thirty.

Happy birthday.

Love,

your mama.