To my child,

it has been almost a week since you were born.

The guard told me she adopted you, so you are no longer the son of a slave. He's nice to me, but he keeps giving me nuts and fruit slices. I don't know how old he thinks I am, but I am already 16 and a mother. I'm not a small child.

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He said I would have the old backyard room at the edge of the servants' quarters. I won't be a servant anymore but I won't be allowed to leave. They're giving me a technique, for your sake. I hope it's not one of those metal body techniques the guards use. Punching hot sand looks like it hurts.

They're not making me write any more letters. But I want to keep writing. I'm not quite sure why, but I feel like I would lose something if I didn't.

In love,

your mother