Quilt was down to her last few copper coins.
It was a bone-chilling winter day, as she remembered it. That day, they went for a walk for the first time in what felt like forever.
By then, the clothes gifted to them by the noble had worn down to scraps, and the cold bit straight through to the bone.
The first light of morning was creeping into the predawn sky. As they passed a donut stand preparing for the day ahead, a sweet smell drifted toward them, making her eldest daughter’s stomach rumble. When was the last time she’d had a treat?
Quilt approached the man running the stall and showed him the handful of coins she had left. Was there anything, she asked, anything at all she could buy with this?
At first, the man looked ready to wave her off. But then he paused. He took in the burns on her face and hands, the two small children clinging to her sides.
“This isn’t normally something we sell, but here,” he said, handing her a paper bag.
Quilt peeked inside. Whatever it was, it was hot and steaming—but it wasn’t a donut.
“What is it?” she asked.
“The center!” her eldest cried, her voice bursting with joy.
A genuine, radiant smile was on her thin, hollowed face—far too gaunt for a child.
“It’s the center of the donut, isn’t it, mister?”
“Aye, it is. Clever girl, aren’t you?”
Three fresh, hot, steaming pieces.
Clutching their spoils, Quilt handed the man the last of her life savings. They kept walking, and before long, they reached the upstream bank of the river—the place where they used to play. But the river here wasn’t the same. The whitewater surged violently, nothing like the calm, glassy waters downstream. Cold, churning torrents roared past, the sound filling the air.
“You can eat all three, my darling one,” Quilt said to her eldest.
“But…” The girl glanced between her mother and her baby sister.
“Babies can’t eat grown-up food. And your mother’s too full. She couldn’t take another bite,” Quilt said.
“No!” her daughter cried, thrusting one of the donut holes toward her. “No, Mom! You eat this one! Say ‘ahh’!”
Quilt saw the tears welling in her daughter’s eyes. She didn’t protest. She opened her mouth and let her daughter feed her.
The treat was warm and fragrant. Soft, buttery heaven met her when her teeth sank through the crisp, golden crust. Steam slipped from her lips as she exhaled, “Mmm, that’s very good, isn’t it?”
She crouched down to meet her daughter’s eyes and smiled. Honestly, it might have been one of the best things she’d ever tasted.
Seeing her mother smile—really smile, for the first time in what felt like forever—the girl lit up, too. She grabbed her own donut hole, popped it into her mouth, and…yep. Her face went even brighter.
“The centers are yummy!” she said, beaming, and they shared a moment—eyes and smiles meeting before breaking into laughter.
The truth was, Quilt could barely taste a thing. Her tears spilled freely, her nose and throat were clogged, and she could hardly breathe.
She stepped down from the river’s edge, hoisted her youngest onto her back, and, taking her eldest by the hand, began the long walk home.
On the way, she suddenly remembered the orphanage.
Once, her eldest had seen a group of children picking up litter on the streets and had asked why they were allowed to work when she wasn’t. Wanting to keep her daughter from growing up with prejudice against orphans, Quilt had told her a bedtime story about a princess living in an orphanage.
She hadn’t expected it to stick.
But something in that tale had resonated deeply with her daughter. Quilt wasn’t sure what part, but from that night on, she’d been asked to tell it again and again.
She looked down at the small, stick-thin arm wrapped around hers. At the painful, scarred face of her daughter. So thin was this girl that she was little more than skin and bones
Yet she had a living parent.
A living parent—and she was doing worse than those with none.
That realization broke whatever remained of Quilt’s composure. The tears she’d been holding back finally fell.
She had tried to die today. Even if her daughter’s love had stopped her this time—even if they were going home—she knew that feeling would come back.
Because there was nothing left. Not a single copper coin to her name. And with her ruined, useless hands, there was no way she could ever earn another.
“I told her to count to ten,” Quilt said quietly, “and when I was out of sight, to knock on the gates. I wanted more time with her, but her feet were almost frozen solid; her toes were turning purple.”
If she were going to die, she would do it alone. She wouldn’t drag her children with her like she had tried to today. No doubt that bright, kind orphanage would take them in, feed them, and keep them warm. They would be safe there.
She placed her younger daughter in her elder’s arms, then cupped her hands around her cheeks and looked deep into her eyes.
“Mom?” the little girl asked.
“Yes?” Quilt replied.
“Can we eat donut centers together again one day?”
“…Yes.”
Her vision blurred with tears. She rubbed them away, frustrated that she couldn’t hold onto her daughter’s face just a little longer.
“Goodbye, my loves.”
Then she tore her eyes away and ran—ran as fast as her failing body would carry her. She didn’t look back. She couldn’t. Because she knew that if she did, if she saw even a single glance more of them, she’d never be able to let go. And one day, she’d try to die with them all over again.
“I loved those girls. With all my heart. But at the same time…I couldn’t ignore the part of me that felt burdened by them. Like they were extra weight I had to carry. I thought that without them, I could work more, work harder. That I wouldn’t be so hungry all the time…
“But I was wrong. So terribly wrong.”
Her hand trembled as she raised it to cover her eyes.
“They weren’t extra weight. They were crutches—the only thing holding me up. Without them, I lost the will to do anything. To wake up early. To work. To cook. Even to wash. It was only because I had them that I could manage at all. That I could still feel like a human being.
“After I let them go, even the desire to die left me. When I was finally kicked out of my home, I drifted to the streets—too hollow to seek anything: not help, not hope, not even an end. Ever since then, I’ve stayed here. Dead? Alive? I don’t know. Just here. Because I’m just ever the tiniest bit closer to them.”
She bit back a sob.
“And I’m the one who threw them away. Horrible woman, aren’t I? Sorry you had to hear it.”
“What are your daughters’ names?” Sophie asked.
“Cecili. And Mairi. My husband named them after two of the most beautiful islands in his homeland.”
Raymond leaned all the way back as the revelation physically knocked him off balance. Claire just nodded, pleased with herself, saying she’d thought they looked alike.
Sophie didn’t say a word. She simply stood and rolled up her sleeves.