Dear diary, I have come to realize that I am a doubtful creature. There will always be lingering doubt. The doubt in my ability to sustain myself or to sustain my son's needs. I am no begger, not anymore. It is true that I have not the splendors that come with my birthright, but I have not toiled only to bend on my knees as a dog searching for scraps. Everywhere I look there seems to be unsolicited advice. Is this paranoia? No. Sensitivity? Perhaps, but in this sensitivity I can see past the masks which people don. I've built my wall and kept it secure for a decade. I am a woman who wrestles with her nature. And I know that if I were to bear my soul to the world it would be the death of me. I've taken the liberty of putting Freawine into a trade an apprenticeship. He was not pleased. I love him dearly, but I need to know that he will be well prepared for the future.
He is seven, yes but no child should have the childhood I did. If he could learn to work with his hands as a carpenter. It will give him the gratification of knowing that he is strong and can complete satisfying work. Those that wish to condemn me obviously have never raised a child before. Let alone on their own. A firm and loving hand is needed to raise a boy into a man. He will learn how to defend himself as well in the future, perhaps when he is eleven. I do not know if he has the maturity to respect a weapon and what it does yet.
These are the ramblings that I dare not utter to the public.
