Swiftcurrent Creek We can both pretend it's the first time

There was a brittle nature to Reverie’s voice that reminded Moss of the sound of thin ice crackling underfoot. Not the creaks and groans of lake ice, but the sort that splintered and could split skin like glass. Something was amiss; Moss, a natural skeptic, sensed it- and stubbornly denied it any sort of validity. 

She wasn’t typically a worrywort. Paranoid, of course- but the sort who would anxiously write off red flags in the hopes that denial might erase them from existence. Whatever problem it was that Reverie referred to, was inconsequential now. She was alive- and she had one child to show for it. Moss would not ask if there had been others, or if she had lost a troubling amount of blood. Her presence and warmth would see that she survived this. 

She grappled with her own paranoia and sought the solace of turning a blind eye to any hints she might have been given. ”Childbirth is hard. This was your first; and you did so well, Reverie. And, all on your own.” For her most cherished treasure, the kindest words would be all she would hear. ”I’m glad you’re back safe, but I knew you could do it.”