I still can't decipher if what I heard last night was real, or a dream. I'm not getting my hopes up, though.

I make my way to the lumber mill as the sun rises. I feel like I'm missing something, like somepony's hiding behind a tree while yelling at me to find them. I can't figure out what I'm supposed to do, so today I'm just moving forward. Dad's already got the rotating saw running, cutting whole logs in half down the middle.

I don't pay attention to him, but keep moving. Somepony else grabs half of the cut log and drags it with a hook toward the next part. I'm there to sand it.

The inside of the log is already pretty smooth, thanks to the saw. I just have to grind the coarse paper against it to make sure nopony gets splinters. These logs will likely be used for a floor, so once I'm done sanding this side it'll be taken back to be cut again, and again, until it's just a couple boards. I have to sand them all, but whatever.

At some point during the day, Churner's song comes into my head and I start singing it in my mind, humming along out loud.

I've been sanding so long my peanut coat is now saw-dust colored. I've already blown my glasses off four times, but each time they get dirtier faster. I suddenly notice the other stallion, the one who's actually paid to sand the boards. He smiles at me, I smile back. He's got really defined shoulders, so much so that his backside looks disproportionate. His mane dangles in front of his eyes just a tad, and his tail is cut very short. It's safer that way, especially if he spends time near the circular saw; getting his tail caught could be the last anypony hears from him.

It's a bit of an exaggeration, but it is dangerous. I likely won't be going up there today, but my tail is still short enough for regulation to consider it safe. I take a break, heading over to the community cooler. Twenty or so water bottles are stacked inside, cold and ready to drink. I pop one open, take a long drink, then an even longer breath. I see my father trotting over.

He looks me in the eye. Do I see a hint of repentance?

He nods to me, then grabs his own water bottle. After his own long drink he talks to me, "You're doing great, bud." Something's eating at him, I’m sure of it. I think about the talk he had with mom that I may or may not have dreamed up. He's silent for a few seconds, then, "keep up the good work."

Is that it? There’s something I need to hear, he needs to say. He knows it has to be said, whatever it is. "I'm not apologizing," I state before he leaves.

He drops his head and sighs. "No," he says, "you have no reason to."

I expect him to say something else, to admit his fault or apologize to me. He's so quiet I almost say something. I want to say something, to dare him to say it.

"You look a little dirty," he says. What? "Why don't you head home? Mom and Picker probably have lunch ready." He's quiet a few more seconds before adding, "Have a nice day."

Seriously? "So you’re just sending me home?"

He looks back at me, right at my face. "Yeah," he says. "This isn't you're area. Working won't clear your head like it does mine."

I think I get what he's saying. He wants to make up, to apologize. He just can't bring himself to it. He's too stuck in his ways to admit he was wrong. Right now, he's just hoping that working hard will beat some sense into him. I hope it does too.

I turn and go, looking back once to see him climbing back up to the circular saw. My eyes wander to the sanding pony. He doesn't look any older than me, and from this angle he's got such a sweet, round little flank, a hack-saw cutie mark. I shake my head, afraid to push my boundaries.

I make it home and discover Picker had baked a pie. Mom's stirring soup while he sets the hot pan in the open window. He sits to watch it, determined not to let anything touch it.

Mom greets me cheerily. "You're home early."

All I say at first is "Yeah." I sit at the table and she sets bowls at four spaces and a high chair. She calls for Dale, and he comes in shortly after carrying our baby sister Barley. Her story is a sad one; mom's sister, one of the twins, was married and had the filly. She and her husband were then taken by an accident where a delivery pony's heavy load broke from its flying carriage a hundred yards above. I'm told it was a brutal scene, but in the end, little Barely was left to us. The twin sister knew nothing about raising foals, so it was up to mom to step up for one more. She says it was a gift, that she's secretly always wanted a filly, but her age has been getting the better of her. At least she doesn't have to work.

Once everypony's settled and the bowls are filled, they start eating. I'm stuck thinking. I have to ask, "Mom?"

"Yes, dear?" She smiles.

"Did you and dad talk last night?"

She pauses a second, but a short second, "Yes. He really wants to talk to you."

"Yeah, he seemed a little... different, at work." I dip my spoon into my soup, once again wondering how I can handle it with one hoof. It's just nature, but some things you can't help but wonder about. "He definitely had something on his mind."

"I'll bet he did," she smiled again. She's obviously very happy.

After lunch I feel terrible. I don't know if I'm ready to forgive him. But, if I don't forgive him before he dies...

(Don't overreact.)

"Really, though," I say out loud, alone in my room, "what if something terrible happens at the mill?"

(Then you can apologize to his grave. Apologize for not forgiving him.)

"That's real nice, Aura."

(No it's not, it's mean. You need to calm down.)

"You need to stop telling me that. You should know by now that telling me to calm down just stresses me out more."

(Well, I'm sorry I can't cuddle with you.)

Yeah, me too.

I took a nice little nap, and then I took a nice shower. While I was washing I made a little push at my anus. I hadn't done it in so long, and kind of startled myself. It was as pleasurable as ever, and I had to bite my lip to keep from moaning like a filly. I could never get very deep. Besides, I didn't want to take myself that far.

My shaft was already at full length when I stopped myself. I sit under the warm stream a few minutes longer, my ass a little tight. Eventually I get out. Preferring to air dry, I go outside to the front porch. The sun has come out from behind every storm cloud and a brisk breeze makes my skin tingle. It felt so... happy.

I saw dad coming up, and actually smiled. I stopped myself before he saw, but I still felt victorious. He made eye contact with me as he approached the front steps, nodded, said "Timber," and walked inside. I heard him visit with everypony inside like he was a distant relative visiting for the holiday.

I feel almost mortified. Wasn't he going to apologize?

Suddenly something mom said to him comes back to me, something she said about shutting out his other children, giving so much attention to me, trying to fix me... or something. That's what she told him, right? Was that all he heard?

I'm not entirely dry when I make my way inside, just as mom says "Isn't there something you'd like to say to Timber?"

He looks at me like, Oh Yeah! "Of course," he steps over to me, determined to say something. In his eyes, he has no idea what to say. "How was your day, son?"

Who the hell is he? It's as if he's completely forgotten about what he found out, about how he felt just last night.

I look at mom, she looks scared. I look back at him, "My day was, great, thanks." He smiles.

"Mill, dear," mom steps in, "wasn't there something you wanted to say? About him, and Churner?"

"Why?" He asks, completely oblivious. "You're still working for him, right?" He looks at me, confused.

I have no idea. Has he really forgotten? "You don't remember?"

Now he looks as worried as confused. "Remember what?"

Mom has tears in her eyes. I'm getting angry, but I keep my head.

"Speaking of," he says solidly, "shouldn't you be at work? It's only four in the afternoon."

"I..." have no idea what to say, or what he actually remembers. "He, let me come home early today. I wasn't feeling well."

"Oh, well I hope you feel better." He turns to go upstairs. He always showers quickly after work, reads the paper for about an hour, then helps prepare dinner. I wonder if he'll still be the same enough to do that much.

But I want him to be the same. I want him to remember. Don't I? Aren't I supposed to forgive him for something? Didn't he ruin my life? How could he just move along like nothing happened? Like he wasn't about to disown me for kissing a stallion?

I run outside. Mom calls after me, but I keep running. The screen door slams against the outside wall, but my ears are roaring, tears bleeding into my eyes. He can't do this to me. Who the hell does he think he is?