clary

Skeletor looked at the note she’d received a minute before from her son’s teacher. She’d taken it like she took all other notes, with a loud “Yeah I know,” that left teachers mystified – was there even a chance she knew? Or could one really live like that?

Some mornings she says hello to me in the most cheerful way but most she chooses to ignore me. This was a normal morning, so I was playing with a frayed thread on my sweater. “What does this even say?!” she said loudly. “Look at this font. Who uses a font like this?!” she exhaled forcefully and handed the note to her son. “Read this to mommy because mommy cannot possibly read that absurd font!” At this point I should note that her son, Clary, is the younger of two children, and although his sister is in elementary school and can read, Clary is three.

He bit his lip and started pulling on his hair nervously. “Oh wait,” she said, looking down at him, “you’re not the one that can read. Shit. I’m just going to take this home.”

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