I owed her a proper letter, I didn’t write enough, but what could I say. It seemed like everyone else wrote so much more than me, but they probably had more people to write to than just their mom. Every time I tried to tell her what happened with Anne, what the trenches were like, how desperately I had to hold myself together, the agony I was always in, why should she know, what was the point. I never could figure out if it was kind or cruel that demons could never have demonic parents, my mom’s humanity meaning she would never know how it was, and sometimes, like now, I wouldn’t tell her if I could. I like being her invincible daughter, like no other succubus, how happy she was when I convinced her I would survive this, and I would, but she didn’t need to know how, but I couldn't lie. My letter told her I was alive, not sick or injured, that I miss my home, I miss her, that I love her. It was what I could manage, so it had to be enough, she would understand. Updates Wednesdays