Even when Aletheia was an infant she hated to be touched or held. Lucille had avoided coddling and cradling because it made her babe anxious. Whatever had possessed her daughter to be unlike the others was beyond Lucille's comprehension as a mother, but she never fought to coddle or cuddle, because there was no point in forcing her daughter to be a way she was not.

So when Lucille opened the door into her bedroom Aletheia was the last head she expected to see poking out between her covers. Grateful as she was to have this moment with her daughter, Lucille worried what drove her most reclusive daughter into bed with her mother.

Not wanting to wake her or startle her, Lucille moved silently around the bed, dressed herself into a nightgown that flowed effortlessly down her figure, allowing her air to breathe, and crawled into bed as softly as she could manage.

The bed cracked under her weight, but settled as Lucille's head hit the pillow. She flicked off the lights and scooted closer to her 'teenage' daughter, curled into herself, eyes purple from exhaustion and mouth slightly agape, breathing slowly and steadily.

She was tempted to reach out and touch her, but reminded herself that it wasn't Elsie or Elliott that laid across her, but the most fearful and introverted Quinton of them all. Instead she smiled, brushed a strange hair out of the child's noise without touching the skin and whispered 'goodnight' before drifting off to sleep.

Word Count :: 284