Love thy Godmother, Godfather, and Godson

Heartfelt Promise: Tamara's Turner's Story

*Swallows.* Hi, everyone. I know a lot of you probably won't be following this story anymore...and I'm sorry. I had to wait until I was a bit better, and I considered simply deleting this story, and starting again.

Cheers to OddAuthor, who gave me a gentle push to keep going. ^^

Please, take care, everyone. If you're still interested in this story, I promise I won't keep you waiting as long.


I thought I saw...

...a shooting star... did not make a sound...

It was so high...

...I can't be sure...

It ever touched the ground...

But I am SURE I saw it fell,

And it brightened up my day,

Won't you say that you,

Thought you saw it, too, I can feel this way?"

~*~At the age of 21, Tamara Ellsworth (for that had been her maiden name) had married fresh out of college, much to her parents' hearty disapproval. To Tamara, it seemed rather hypocritical, as her wealthy mother and father had wed even younger when they still resided in Ustinkistan, but, as her mother insisted, that was hardly the point.

The man whom Tamara fell in love with, who had given her the trophy he'd won for winning a race at eight years old-was a janitor. A clean, simple, run-of-the-mill janitor who had applied for the job at campus to lower the ridiculously high tuition fees that covered all his Pencil Pushing, Advanced Pencil Pushing, Pencil Pushing II, Physics of Pencil Pushing, and the Philosophy of Pencil Pushing, and How It Relates To Our Central Government And Our Meaningless Daily Lives classes.

Mr. Turner had had his eye on Tamara for quite some time, but, as Tamara had been in love with a man her parents had actually approved of, Sheldon Dinkleberg, a.k.a, 'that nice boy with the even nicer pants,' Mr. T had been reduced to watching his beloved spend most of-if not practically of all-her free time with Sheldon from the shadows.

He, being a gentleman, never forgot to give Dinkleberg a hearty scowl whenever the two happened to pass in the corridors. In fact, Mr. T had taken a few college credit courses on Glaring, Advanced Glowering, Several Obnoxious and Downright Crude Hand Gestures 101, and a refresher course of Remedial Teeth Gnashing and Advanced Rage, just for the daily occasion.

But Sheldon soon deserted Tamara after receiving several grants from the Military and Medical Industries, much to the poor girl's despair. And while her parents were quite dismayed at this, they still rather wished (And do wish to this day, my dear readers) that Tamara had found someone kind, sweet, sturdy, and reliable….rather then Mr. Turner who, to them, was a complete, and total-

...hmmmm. Maybe I should try rephrasing myself...

You see, Mr. and Mrs. Ellsworth thought that Mr. Turner was nothing short of an absolute...!


Well, he didn't seem quite so kind, sweet, sturdy, and reliable to them. Let's carry on. Mrs. Ellsworth was horrified at the idea of Tamara dating someone so beneath her, and Mr. Ellsworth seemed to think that the only way of knowing Mr. Turner's exact IQ was to not test for it, but dig very, very, very, very, very (This goes on for pages, so let's skip that, shall we?) VERY deep for it.

If one existed at all.

Unfortunately, on the many Dating sites that Tamara browsed, she could find no one with such splendid qualities that her parents continuously reminded her were critical of a good husband...excepting Chompy the Goat, who was booked in dates nine months in advance. He was known as quite the charmer, and a ladies' Whichever.

So Tamara had accepted a date with Mr. Turner, and then another, and then another. Upon meeting her parents, well….Mr. and Mrs. Ellsworth had expressed their concerns about the young couple. Mr. Ellsworth offered Mr. Turner a good seven hundred thousand dollars to leave Tamara, and Mrs. Ellsworth anxiously asked Tamara if she TRULY would rather date Mr. Turner then Chompy, as the woman was quite certain she could pool her vast sea of resources to procure a date with the can-eating hunk.

But, as both were adamant, Mr. Ellsoworth decided to express his distaste of the whole thing by trapping several rabid coyotes in the backseat of Mr. Turner's car.

And, when the Wedding Invitation came eight months later, Mr. Turner had had to not walk, but limp down the isle, as his most unwilling, new father-in-law threw him a Bachelor's Party the night beforehand….which had a theme of 'Extreme Sports.' The main event: An all out, Free For All, Race, Mr. Turner….against seven snarling, ravenous Pit Bulls. With the car as a finish line.

...and a few more 'Congratulatory' gifts in the trunk. Those gifts just so happened to be starved wolverines, and they had happily bitten off the 'Just Married' sign that Mr. T had clumsily painted for the back of the destroyed tin can the man had once called a car, which now remarkably resembled a piece of tin even the boy scouts wouldn't be collecting anytime soon.

But, to Mr. and Mrs. Ellsworth's credit, perhaps they have warmed up to Mr. Turner since then. For Christmas, they refrained from sending the usual Fruitcake and rabid dogs, in lieu for snarling bobcats with very sharp teeth-and no fruitcake.

A delighted Mr. Turner, in the Holiday season last year, hardly minded that he had to be, once again, tugged out of the house on the stretcher he'd made himself. The calibrations, pain and suffering, mental anguish, and physical trauma were down by fifteen percent this year.

Maybe they were finally starting to like him.

Anyways, before a menagerie of snarling woodland creatures interrupted me… nothing says 'danger' quite like a red-eyed Bambi gone feral...

The Turners were wed young, and their dreams for the future were high. As childless adults, the little money they had was theirs, and just theirs.

There were concerts on the weekends, and pizza delivered to their new apartment in Dimsdale three times a week, Chinese take-out a good four days.

They stayed up late. They went to movies. Mr. Turner pursued his Pencil Pushing career, and the new Mrs. Turner worked as an accountant and Real Estate Saleswoman.

There were board games to play at night, and, as car payments and rent money began to be paid, plenty of things to enjoy after work. The two partied, quite long, and quite often. (Often with the most ridiculous people in the most ridiculous of places...)

But before you were so rudely interrupted by an editorial...

It was simply what they did, and thrived upon. Mr. Turner bought a motorcycle, and cherished his dream of one day buying a genuine, 1960s, Striker Z. As for Mrs. Turner, it was a Seller's Market rather then a Buyer's, and she enjoyed her job, even if her ex-boyfriend, who lived not too far away, made more then she and her husband combined.

Her husband could glower at Sheldon all he liked-SHE personally enjoyed living in an apartment. As it was not theirs, she could be careless with the place, if she so chose. No annoying maintenance, or windows to break, or lawns to keep up, or gardens to replenish.

Some people had green thumbs. Tamara Turner, however, had a black thumb, blacker then Scrooge's heart before a few ghosts showed up, and blackmailed him into fright, and to the point of realizing the error of his ways. Tamara's mother had NEVER let her daughter help her in the garden. Just looking at her prized geraniums the wrong way could cause them to wilt.

A seedling is very much like a child. And every seed the woman touched, simply recoiled into itself, and died.

Life was good.

Then, one morning, Mr. Turner had had to ask if Tamara had gained weight….quite a lot of weight. In response, Tamara had brought out one of her famous right hooks directly to Mr. Turner's jaw.

While the two were in the ER, tending Mr. T's almost dislocated side of his face, the world had begun to spin in Tamara's eyes. Wretchedly, hurriedly, quickly-it had spun, and the poor woman had been violently ill-as if she had once again attempted the near fatal act of eating the food she tried to cook.

The Doctor had asked for the woman's recipes-most likely to show to the Poisoning Department at the hospital.

The doctor had very kindly offered a Physical to Mrs. T, and the bemused woman had accepted, upon learning that it was free. In kind terms, Mr. T was very frugal with his money, and, in earthlier phrases, he was a skinflint and a cheapskate. Mr. Turner had once attempted to give himself ocular surgery in lieu of paying $200 dollars, and was well known as a menace in the hospital community.

Mrs. T, much to her disappointment, HAD gained a bit of weight….but just a bit. The woman also confessed to morning sickness, and the occasional craving of watermelon with a nice covering of barbeque sauce, and a side of mustard and cheesecake.

It was then that the Doctor, curiously stroking his chin as he looked over his notes while Mr. T was still being stitched up in the ER next door, had given Tamara Turner a small device, and a kind invitation for her to use the bathroom.

Her hands shook; obviously, the thing was lying. She hadn't dared to use one of her husband's home-made pregnancy tests (She rather enjoyed her ability to breathe, with all due respect to Mr. T), but THAT one would certain give her a -.

Not this. This….couldn't be correct. At all. Maybe it was a division symbol, and not a……..

She couldn't even say it as she stared down at the white device.


She couldn't be with child. She just couldn't be. She was too young-still far too young-to have a little girl of her own.

A beautiful, adorable, little girl, with her Father's dark hair in little curls, and her mother's bright eyes. A little girl to push out in a pink pram, much as she'd done as a child, albeit with one of her dolls inside.

A little girl. A bright, Barbie-esque, little girl of their own. A little girl with hair to braid, and to put in bows, and to have old ladies fuss over when they passed by, cooing softly.

She felt the tiniest, tremulous little twitch inside of her, and she pressed her hand soothingly to her stomach, rubbing it absentmindedly.

At the thought of a girl, this situation looked brighter by the second. She'd always wanted a daughter, and mother's intuition-girls had to be born with this sort of thing-told her that she was carrying a girl.

Tamara glanced at herself in the mirror, her eyes pink. With a quiet sigh, she bent over the sink, and began to wash her eyes after turning on one of the taps, still lost in thought.

Their apartment was far too small for a child. But it would mean redecorating a room. Had Tamara not chosen home finance over Designing, she would have gone into business as a Room Organizer, Refurbisher, Redesigner…..

They would have to move, but they could afford a small home in the suburbs. Maybe that wouldn't be so bad. There would be wallpaper to pick out, (Much to Mr. Turner's despair, as he felt his wife spent rather too much time in that arena of the store as it was), soft, plush animals to gather, a crib to buy, EVERYTHING to buy….

…if she had this baby. The alternative abortion.

Tamara uncertainly glanced at her stomach. She supposed that she was Pro-Situation, which was a bit like Pro-Life and Pro-Choice, but…..

Again, the infant stirred in her womb; not enough to make her wince, but enough to make her fidget a little bit in uncertainty. The movement was gentle. Was the baby kicking her? What was it doing, exactly?


Tamara glanced at the door.

She could figure this out, later. For right now, she needed to have a serious talk with her husband. Her brow creased as she wiped her hands and face clean.

How dare he call her fat?

She glanced at her womb again as she made her way out.

Oh. Yeah. And there was this 'baby' matter to bring up, too.

It was quite lucky that they were still in the hospital. Mr. Turner had laughed faintly when Mrs. T had told her the news, expecting that she was joking.

It was then that she showed him the pregnancy test. The man had looked at it, and laughed….and laughed weakly…..

Maybe she should have waited until her husband had recaptured his wind.

The man had fainted at the news, and an irritated crew of Doctors were forced to drag out the electric paddles, with many shouts of, 'CLEAR!'

In five weeks, they were packing their things. Mind drifting, Mrs. Turner had taken the paper plates on which they had eaten dinner, and absentmindedly began to scrub the increasingly soggy bits of paper, her thoughts all over the map as she pressed another hand to her growing womb.

The child was a mild one, and while it was a kicker, it did not kick her particularly hard, something for which she was grateful for. If it wasn't weird cravings, (She had chewed up a good thirty percent of her husband's pencils a few days ago) it was weird mood swings, and a great deal of morning and evening sickness, though there wasn't so much of that anymore, thank heavens.

Tamara began to scrub at a greasy box that had once contained chicken, not noticing how the sad, soggy little thing was literally melting in her hands.

They had decided to keep the baby. Though Mr. T still had rapid heart parent anxiety, he was…actually looking forwards to the girl they were going to have. The man was far too cheap to have an ultrasound, so he simply made a scanner himself, and affirmed that Tamara was to expect a girl. Tamara wasn't sure how he could tell what the little bundle still nestling inside her was-the baby was tiny, and the scan made it difficult to see much of anything-but she too, felt the joyous conviction and promise of a little girl.

Mr. T had liked the name 'Samantha,' while she liked 'Taylor' or 'Tammy.' The two had argued about it for such a long time, that at last, they consented to combine the name. TiMantha.


Tamara Turner sighed dreamily as she turned the tap water off, and, hands still wet and soapy, began to pack dishes into the waiting cardboard box at her feet, unaware she was packing the wet paper plates.


Tamara's position in Real Estate had helped the two settle in fairly quickly.

They had moved next to the Dinklebergs, much to her husband's anger. Just to knock at Mr. D, the man began to take night classes to insult his non-mutual enemy in Espanol as well as in Ingles'.

But it had been fun, to visit Girl's World with her family and girlfriends, to buy pink teddy bears with silver wings and soft eyes, pink wallpaper, a pink princess bedspread….

Tamara's nervous neighbor friend Irma, who supposedly had a six year old, living terror named Vicky (Something Tamara did not believe, as she had met the little girl, and found her a convential sweetheart, once you got over the fact that the child stole her classmates' action figures, tied them to stakes, and burned them on the front lawn) was too, expecting a little girl. As a sort of 'Congratulations,' or, as Irma put it, 'Consolation' gift, Irma bought Tamara a small pink hat for the child to wear when she had a Daddy's day out, and went to her first baseball game.

Tamara was already dreaming of the day.

Months later, it had came. Very, very early in the morning, or very, very late-in the dead of night, depending on how one chose to look at it...the child came with the first ray of early spring sunshine.

Her body had been racked with agony, and the responding baby shuddered from within her, as if apologizing, as patient doctors and midwives bent over a distressed Tamara.

Whoever had said that childbirth was a beautiful moment-had lied. Lied, lied, lied-lied-lied-lied LIED!

For hours, Tamara Turner was in that Godforsaken delivery room, gasping, as tears burned to her eyes, and trickled down her face. The seconds were minutes, minutes hours, hours days. It simply dragged on, and on, and on.

Her hands were glued to her quivering stomach, but no one could tell if she were attempting to comfort herself, or the child stirring inside of her. Maybe it was both.

And, when the pain finally, FINALLY-began to recede from her, and she heard a soft mewing sound echo in the room, more tears began to trickle down her face. She'd sagged back, eyes lost in exhausted wonder, as the nurses bent over a small child, who she could hear feebly weeping bitterly.

A small, tired smile graced her features, as she fell back into her pillows with a content sigh.

The child's flawless skin was almost translucent in the little light that could trickle down from the stirring March skyline from the window. Where life was again stirring from underneath the ground made cold and harsh by months of ceaseless winter frost outside, from curious birds who happened to look in the window where something very small, and very wriggly was snuffling in blankets-

Another life had stumbled into the world that day.

The baby's eyes, as they could be seen whenever the child sleepily blinked, were a watery, sky-blue. The hair was not black, but brown-a darker shade then the light chestnut of his mother's, rather like a sturdy oak, or a willow branch rich in colour.

Yes, dear reader. His.

His hair. His little fingertips. His small, blue panda pajamas, and his small, blue blanket cradling him.


And Tamara was crushed.

Her eyes still red, face flushed, mouth twisted and contorted with the cold vibes of disappointment still shaking her from the inside, mocking her mistake-Tamara let out moan after moan, while wayfaring nurses glanced at her sympathetically, or disapprovingly. Some avoided looked at her altogether in the small room.

The woman shuddered from her rocking chair, biting the inside of her mouth as she fought back more of the salty tears burning in her eyes-fought to keep them from trickling down to join the other opaque tears still streaming down her face.

Mr. Turner cupped her shoulder as she wailed, and, upon being disturbed from slumber, the frightened, and confused child began to sob from the hospital bassinette. But neither parent paid any attention as Mr. T bent down to kiss his wife's cheek, face uncharacteristically gentle.

"C'mon, honey-another man around the house can't be THAT bad."

Mrs. Turner only began to cry even louder. Mr. Turner raised an eyebrow, and the man hurriedly bent down, rustled through an old shopping bag, and drew out a small, pink hat.

The man bustled over to the whimpering child, and placed the cap Irma had bought on Timmy's head, managing a smile.

"We'll wing it. See? I can hardly tell the difference, right now."

Watching the child puzzedly pick at the small hat that seemed altogether much too large for him, Tamara Turner had to smile, even through the tears.


Days. Weeks. Months. Years went by, one after another, as they always do. Tamara began to yearn for her lost freedom whenever she heard Timmy cry softly at night, or whenever the needy, pitiful little thing fell down, and had a scrape, and cried, desperate for attention.

There are those stupid enough to proclaim that all women are meant to be mothers, which, to Tamara, was the same thing as claiming that all men were meant to be trapped in a dead-end, pencil-pushing career like her husband's.

Timmy was a cute little thing, and Tamara knew some consolation when young ladies would bend over Timmy's pram on the family's rare walks together, and coo over the sleeping little bundle that perpetually had a pacifier in his mouth. Tamara had heard that allowing children to suckle continuously on those rubber things could cause their teeth could come in oddly, but that was most likely an old wive's tale. Besides, when Timmy cried, it was an unnerving, distressing noise-one neither Turner knew quite how to deal with. Tamara often simply buried her face in a pillow late at night while her little boy screamed, and had to resist the horrifying urge to drive the pillow into the boy's face once or twice.

She had attempted to take away Timmy's pacifier once or twice, but as it was one of the only things that could make the boy stop whimpering, Tamara allowed him to keep it.

As Timmy began to grow older, Tamara found the best thing to do, as a Stay-at-Home Mom, was to often drop Timmy off at the homes of Mothers in her YMC, or Young Mom's Club. Timmy always had a playmate, then-with a little boy named Sanjay, or Chester, or AJ, or Elmer. There was also a little girl whom doted on the boy named Tootie, who was already scribbling out her and Timmy's wedding invites with crayons, but Timmy preferred to give her a wide berth, whenever possible.

Dad was a little...unnerved by Timmy, sometimes. While once in awhile, the two enjoyed a nice game of catch, the man was a workaholic, or at one of his absurd inventions or projects. Whenever Timmy scooted to him with one of his pictures, Dad usually absentmindedly patted Timmy on the head before bustling outside to continue his search for the underground city of the mole people, but not before parking his son in front of the TV, as it was the only thing the man could think of TO do.

Well...that's not quite correct. Mr. Turner had noticed that Timmy would usually do whatever the creepily-smiling man on Clint's Hints told him to do, or copied whatever it was that annoying pipsqueak who called herself an explorer when she had to glance at a map when she was in her own flippin' house-was doing. In fear that Dora and Clint would soon realize this, and stir the youth into becoming perfect, obedient slaves to begin a hostile takeover, Mr. T had instead insisted that Timmy read a book, or, at the very least, watch manlier shows. Most of which involved badly drawn Japanese characters kicking the jelly out of one another in stupid, violent, non-imitable (Or, at least, Mr. T HOPED they were non-imitable) stunts.

Every child went through a 'clingy' phrase. But much to Mrs. Turner's agitation, this phase didn't seem to have any veritable end for her son.

The boy did his best to capture his parents' attention, first by being a perfect little angel...and then, when that had no effect, by being a...not so perfect little angel. But Tamara would simply lock the boy up in his crib or room whenever the child misbehaved, and left it at that. When the boy was being loud, and singing while beating a pan with a wooden spoon, Tamara, at her wit's end, would simply direct him outside for a moment's peace.

He clung to his Mother's skirts when she left the house, and Timmy's father, deciding to have another joke, warned Timmy that if he tried to stop Mommy from leaving, why, she would leave-and never, ever come back.

Timmy stopped attempting to dissuade his mother from leaving after that, but he did have a habit of running to the windows whenever she left, face extremely white, blue eyes almost too big for his face.


Whenever the boy clung to his father, Dad, who'd rarely been hugged or held by Pappy himself-simply shook the boy off. There were other activities to get to, such as throwing crabgrass onto his neighbor's lawn, or disappearing into his office to carefully hang up another collector's edition poster of The Silver Sharpener, which was somewhere in Canada. After a bit of this, Dad simply took to dropping Timmy off at his friends' houses, which was nice, because the house had a blessed moment of peace.

Visiting Timmy's friends' homes, however...was usually not nearly so nice, for while Timmy was well accepted at each home...there were...some aspects that gave Mr. and Mrs. Turner the almost impossible idea-the absurd, laughable idea-that they themselves were unwelcome, though their small child, who so often scurried out of the car for a hug from one of his playmates' guardians...was.

Anne, AJ's mother, treated Timmy as if he were her own child, for whatever reason. She had a habit of shooting Mr. Turner cold glowers, which the man couldn't quite comprehend. Maybe it had something to do with the Yak Cologne his wife had bought him for Christmas. The stuff smelled revolting. Next year, the man would simply have to ask for Essence of Nog instead.

Patrick, AJ's Father, a brilliant mathmatician...had a small cannon made to fire at Girl Scouts, Salesmen...and, for whatever silly mistake...the adult Turners, which was why the two parents so often smelled of burning hair by the time they stumbled back home.

Maria and her new husband, Fabio, were always decent to Timmy, though Fabio had always been something of a mindless drill seargent. Mr. Turner didn't like dropping off Timmy to play with Sanjay if he could help it, for Sanjay's step-father often forced Mr. T to come out of his car, and to give him fifty. That part was never fun for Mr. T, especially considering that Fabio had no head for numbers, and often forgot his place every two minutes.

Felix and Esther, Chester's parents, were quite possibly poster children of the 'You Know You're A Redneck If...' generation, but Felix took Timmy fishing, and Esther was 'mighty dern hoSPITable to nay-bours.' Esther and Felix had been divorced some years ago, and simply lived under joint-custody jurisdiction, which suited them, and their small child Chester, very well.

But for some reason or another, Esther did not seem to heartily like the Turners very well. She was kind enough to Timmy, (Once you got over the fact that the McBadBats were perfectly fine with the idea of children playing near traffic) but gave the evil eye to a bemused Tamara more then once, and Mr. Turner's car more then often got attacked by rubber-eating squirrels whenever it showed up in the Trailer Park.

As for Monica and Michael, Elmer's parents who served as Children's Librarians, they very often read books to Timmy and Elmer, something the Turners had never really done with Timmy. Certainly, Tamara would read a Soap Opera's Digest to Timmy once in awhile, and Mr. Turner would read out of the phonebook to Timmy every night until the boy was half-asleep with boredom, but nothing like what Monica and Michael would read to the boys: Furious George, The Tragic School Bus, Sarah, Plain, And Portly, and Where The Mild Things Are, were just a few.

Upon receiving a batch of Welcome-To-The-Neighborhood cookies from Mrs. Turner, Monica had slipped on a Hazmat suit, googles, and had carefully removed each and every cookie from the tray as tentaively as if it were an atomic bomb, and threw each pastry into a Nuclear Waste Disposal Bag before driving it to an isolated location, and burning it. As for Michael, he was a meek man, but charged the Turners rather high for Overdue Library Materials...much more then was customary.

But regardless of how weirdly the neighbors felt about it, Timmy was well-tended for. He'd learned to play by himself oft the time, and that was that. Unfortunately, the child was not nearly as independent as Mrs. Turner would have liked, for the boy whimpered and moaned quite a bit, particularly at night, when unseen, but seeing eyes-would peer at him from the darkness of his almost certainly rattling closet, where something enormous and green was fighting tooth and nail to get out, get out, get out.

These were the dreams that had Timmy running away from his room at night in fits of terror, much to his parents' general irritation. Mr. Turner decided to have a spot of fun, and told the boy that there were no monsters peering at him from under the bed or inside the closet-just deranged insurance salesmen.

Maybe he shouldn't have told him that.

Timmy was deathly afraid of realtors, and of door-to-door insurance salesmen until he was six years old.


Tamara was trapped. She couldn't breathe. She no longer desired to have a pretty, pretty little girl, as Timmy had proved too much of a handful by himself! As he grew older, old ladies still thought him adorable, but no one complimented Mrs. Turner as much as they'd used to while Timmy was but a baby.

She could now only work part-time, and had to grudgingly throw away money to feed three instead of two. Her freedom was limited, and she could but rarely leave the house. Timmy was so often underfoot, so craving her attention, that it was sickeningly exhausting. Every night as she flung herself in bed, the only thoughts she could bitterly muster before falling almost instantly asleep-was that this wasn't the life she'd dreampt of for herself, or for the man she loved.

This wasn't what she wanted.

And she thought the same thing whenever Timmy woke her up with moans and sobs of fear, along with his scampering footsteps moving quickly down the hall towards the two.

And, after dinner one day, the woman snapped. She couldn't take it anymore.

Just like that.

They hired twelve-year-old babysitter Vicky to tend for Timmy, and the two had merrily skipped off to a club, just as they did in the old times.

She heard Timmy scream, and Timmy cry, and the idea DID make her feel guilty, but if Vicky was as kind and as sweet as her constantly trembling parents insisted, then Timmy would feel better soon. He was just being insecure. Whiny. He wanted attention. But Vicky would give it to him.

She had a life to live. She had missed out on far too much already, and there was so much catching up to do.

She could hardly wait to live again.

With that mantra, it became easier for the woman to leave her child behind with Vicky, and ignored his absurd tales on a nightly basis.

It was around when Timmy was….eight? Nine? Ten?-She didn't know….that the child became…somewhat withdrawn. At first, the woman was having far too much of a nice time with her husband to notice, but after watching a special with Dr. Phyllis on the telly….

She sometimes forgot she even had a child. The boy was content with his friends, and spent an irregular amount of time with his two goldfish.

(Well, he'd started out with two, but the fish had had a child just a little under a year ago…)

Timmy didn't SEEM unhappy. Quite the contrary. He smiled quite a lot, and, as unnerving as it was for an eleven year old to do so, dragged his goldfish bowl everywhere he went. That, or he carried his three notebooks, three balloons, a somewhat different looking pink hat, a green backpack with violet bands...

But he didn't step outside of his room, much. At least, not that SHE noticed.

He went to school, and sometimes came home with bruises, but boys will be boys. He probably just had the occasional scuffle with Chester, AJ, Sanjay, or Elmer, or something.

He'd mentioned the name 'Francis' continuously when he was younger. Wasn't Francis a girl's name? Was Timmy having girl trouble? No wonder the boy looked positively bruised sometimes….

But the boy never spoke to his mother or father about it, anymore. He didn't speak much of anything to his parents. Even on the rare occasions that his mother and father took a benign interest in the boy, (After remembering they had one) Timmy seemed confused and unnerved by their attentions, and usually shuffled away for them.


It was only when Tamara turned thirty-one did she begin to worry.

One day, while out shopping on the many expensive frivolities she had in store for her fifteenth anniversary with her husband…..did she recall that she rarely bought Timmy things.

Well, she MUST buy him things, and not think of it, much! That was it! Every mother-every good mother-knew their child's likes and dislikes, birthday, allergies, bloodtype….everything right down to the get-go.

But, sitting in bed that same evening, Tamara had to scan her list about what she knew of her own son….

And found nothing, pardoning baseball, and comic books.

That was it.

That was all.

The school nurse pended an investigation to see if Timmy Turner was neglected or abused, upon learning that no one packed the boy's lunch, or sent him to school with money. But Timmy ate well enough, just the same, to the confusion of many people.

Something had always been a little off about Timmy, but Tamara was never quite sure what, exactly…..but that had been fine with her. After all, there was Santa in the Winter, and friends all year 'round. Certainly, she did a fine job in raising her son.

And Tamara continuously thought so.

Until one day.


She hadn't known that the day was special. She never would have guessed.


She'd known she was dreaming, but the accusations being flown at her from every corner made her sick, absolutely sick-to her stomach, as Timmy glanced down at his lap just a few feet away, biting his lip. A pink haired woman was casting Tamara a filthy look, and the green-haired man was casting Timmy an anxious glance, his arm around the boy.

Hadn't Dad done that to Timmy?

She couldn't remember. But he must've, once. Every good father showed their child they cared.

And she must have done the same for Timmy. Of course she'd did. She must have. So it was ridiculous, that these colorful freaks, with large eyes, crowns, and silver wings, sitting in their wooden thrones like Lords...all bearing down upon the Turners accusingly-

But her indignant thoughts had been abruptly washed blank while the enormous fairy in military personal began to speak.


Her eyes swiveled around to glance at Timmy, and the bottom dropped of her stomach, as her young son kept his eyes locked on the ground, looking uncomfortable, but also never denying anything that the large Fairy said.

Not a word.

She had celebrated Timmy's third birthday-that much, she could remember. Or, at the very least, she remembered giving him a bran muffin with a candle in it.

But the others were blank. Why couldn't she remember the parties she must have thrown for Timmy? She HAD to have thrown him a party-invited his friends, bought a cake, and presents.

But she remembered none of that. Was that why these...creatures were glaring at her? Why they were throwing trash at her and her husband? Why the Judge had held up his hands for silence, a cut-throat glare on his eyes as-

...(A Conviction Spoken.)


The hammer flew down, its terrible note resounding into the air, into a distant echo.

And, with that, and a wave of the wand, she and her husband were sent away in a shower of sparks, her mind blank, even as her body fell into perpetual numbness, and darkness began to swarm over her vision.

They'd taken her son away from her.

And now...

That was when the pain nearly destroyed the woman from the inside, and the agony she'd endured in the Delivery room so many years ago

turned into a gentle pinprick, a moderate bit of pain; compared to the stirring inferno inside of the bereaved and broken woman's heart.

It licked at her, even as she clutched her husband's hand in the darkness, unable to see, unable to feel the terror of what was soon to come. If Jorgan was correct, and she was to lose her memories of her own child-

A cry resonated, just before the peaceful, obliviating magic washed over her.

The worse was, she knew that her distress and the pounding of her distraught heart...was something she well deserved. Only then did Tamara Turner realize this.

Only then did she realize that she deserved the anguish, and deserved to have her son taken away from her.

That Timmy deserved to be taken away, by loving hands.

This was the dream that had woken Tamara Turner for the past few nights, though she didn't know why. After all, she'd never had a child, and never had wanted to. She lived with her love, lived as she pleased, and that was that.

All the same, hollowness bit at her continually, and a secret shame burned at her insides. Why, she did not know. But it was the reason why she stood here, at the dock, watching her letter in the bottle drift away from her, as her husband hurried to catch up from behind her, somewhere across the pier.

A seagull shrieked as the woman stared at the dark, churning waters, below the damp wood on which she stood on that smelled of salt. Quietly, Tamara watched the letter she'd labored on since last night float away, twisting and twirling in its corked bottle as it spun every which way the cobalt waves chose to throw it.

At last, Mr. Turner caught up with her, chest heaving. He doubled over for a moment, still gasping, still attempting to catch his breath. He swayed slightly, groaned, and held a hand to his throbbing head before turning his eyes to his wife. Mr. Turner hated the sea.

"Uh...honey? You mind...explainin' what all that was about?"

His eyes alighted on the bottle, as the waves continued to gently push it, farther and farther away from the pier. Mr. Turner raised an eyebrow.

"What's that?"

Tamara kept her eyes fixated upon the bottle, as if she wanted to keep watch over the little thing until it disappeared into the churning foam, somewhere in the distance. The wind gently played at the strands across her face, and she moved them aside, her eyes narrowed, expression quiet. For a moment, Mr. T thought she might not answer, but Tamara finally said:

"A letter."

Mr. T cast her a look that said all too well that he was casting asperiations upon his wife's sanity.

"Uh...honey? I know that the price of stamps these days is outrageous, but, uh...why'd you chuck your letter into an OCEAN? Whose letter is it?"

Tamara could taste the salt in the air, could hear the seagulls shriek overhead. She took her husband's hand, and, for a moment, didn't say anything. Then-

"I don't know whose letter it is."

Mr. T cast his wife an alarmed look.

", what's the letter about?"

Much to his-and her-confusion, Tamara's eyes burned with tears. The woman abashedly rubbed at her eyes, attempting to smile.

"It' asking for the impossible," she said at last, turning her eyes to the enormous, scarlet star sinking in the west, in a sea of oranges, reds, golds, and pinks.

She thought for a moment, and, when she had to speak again, she unsuccessfully fought back the tremor in her voice.

"'s a promise. One I intend to keep."

She closed her eyes, hearing the waves slurp and smack against the wooden beams of the peer below, the tears still falling before she cast her concerned husband a small smile.

"No matter what."