Three drabbles for prompt "bridge"
Non-bonding
Joyce always stayed up until her daughter was home. She was sitting in the kitchen, reading a paperback, when Buffy walked in.
"How was the movie?" The seventh time around.
"Good," Buffy said, one foot already on the stairs. "Leo keeps getting cuter."
"Leo..." Joyce tipped her head back nostalgically. "I remember I used to call-"
"That's nice, Mom. Good night."
Joyce sighed. She marked her page, made sure the kitchen was tidy and flipped off the light before heading upstairs herself. Maybe she would call her own mother in the morning. Hopefully an older woman would have some tips about bridging the generational gap.
Head, Meet Sand
Joyce was always in bed when Buffy got home, but she was usually awake. A year ago, she would have been asleep before her daughter slipped out of the house and oblivious to the various stains and tears in her clothing.
She liked that Buffy would share (some) information if asked, but there was a part of Joyce that wanted to return to the blindness that she had once unknowningly been a part of. And it was that part that argued for staying up with a bottle of gin or vodka- the ironically liquid bridge over the troubled waters of Buffy's adolescence.
Outlook from the Precipice
Joyce had always expected an average life and so far she had had one, all marriage, divorce, two kids, book club. She had steered her girls toward the same, normal path. Now she wondered if it was the right choice.
Her body felt invaded. Even as the doctors talked about surgery and good odds, it was clear to her that she was not meant to retire to Florida and play bridge all day.
Her life hadn't been completely average, but had been good, and she realized that her daughters' could be the same. Maybe not like everyone's, but still happy.
Joyce always stayed up until her daughter was home. She was sitting in the kitchen, reading a paperback, when Buffy walked in.
"How was the movie?" The seventh time around.
"Good," Buffy said, one foot already on the stairs. "Leo keeps getting cuter."
"Leo..." Joyce tipped her head back nostalgically. "I remember I used to call-"
"That's nice, Mom. Good night."
Joyce sighed. She marked her page, made sure the kitchen was tidy and flipped off the light before heading upstairs herself. Maybe she would call her own mother in the morning. Hopefully an older woman would have some tips about bridging the generational gap.
Head, Meet Sand
Joyce was always in bed when Buffy got home, but she was usually awake. A year ago, she would have been asleep before her daughter slipped out of the house and oblivious to the various stains and tears in her clothing.
She liked that Buffy would share (some) information if asked, but there was a part of Joyce that wanted to return to the blindness that she had once unknowningly been a part of. And it was that part that argued for staying up with a bottle of gin or vodka- the ironically liquid bridge over the troubled waters of Buffy's adolescence.
Outlook from the Precipice
Joyce had always expected an average life and so far she had had one, all marriage, divorce, two kids, book club. She had steered her girls toward the same, normal path. Now she wondered if it was the right choice.
Her body felt invaded. Even as the doctors talked about surgery and good odds, it was clear to her that she was not meant to retire to Florida and play bridge all day.
Her life hadn't been completely average, but had been good, and she realized that her daughters' could be the same. Maybe not like everyone's, but still happy.