After spending some time in the woods crying I come home. It had been a while since I’d gone to the woods. I remembered running around with Dale, swinging sticks like swords. My younger years seemed so simple. Until my cutie mark. Even then I felt mostly normal. I was still friends with Fire Ruby, no matter how distant. I remember Dale inviting me to games of Ogres and Oubliettes with his stupid friends. I hated them, really, but I loved spending time with him. I had a bat-pony paladin who fought with mighty a hammer, and always protected his friends. I loved envisioning who he was, how he looked, but never going so far as fantasizing myself with him. He was so strong, bold, heroic. Dale's friends mocked me for how strange my character was, while all of their characters were exactly like them. They had no imagination, no real fun. Dale came up with great dungeons to delve into, I always immersed myself. His friends always had dumb questions.

I still love spending time with him, and sometimes he'll inspire a new story by telling me his dreams, or showing a piece of art he's drawn. He's pretty good, but not good enough, I guess. His cutie mark is a trowel, with a wad of dirt and a flower. He loved gardening as much as he loved fantasy, and he loved hearing about my story ideas while he pulled weeds or trimmed stalks or whatever. We've always had plenty of fresh veggies thanks to him, and a stunning arrangement of flowers around the house.

Picker was always more of a comic relief, to me. We can talk and joke and have a blast together, but we can never talk about anything serious. I both love and hate him for that. I really hate not being taken seriously. Even more so, I hate being taken as a liar. I never lie, as long as I can help it. If I have to spare somepony's feelings, sure. Or if there’s something particular I don’t want ponies to know. But I always justify myself by digging around in my thoughts, making myself believe everything I say is at least part true. If I leave out bits here or there, they hear what they need to and my conscious is clear. It might make me morally dishonest, but no pony's ever been hurt by me stretching the truth.

It's true! Here, in private, I've told you everything I remember; every feeling, every experience, every word as far as I remember. I tell you stories from my past when what I'm writing about then reminds of what happened. I wrote down all my secrets, every last one. And you can check; I only told others when they asked. If there was something I wanted hidden, I'd hide it just skillfully enough to tell the truth. I'm not a bad pony.

Dad knew everything about me, everything a father could know. How could that just wash away in the rain?

Mom was waiting for me on the porch when I made it back home. I missed dinner, but she didn't eat either. She told me dad worried about us, but ate with the rest of the family.

"What's wrong with him?" I ask, leaning against her as the sun goes down. "Does he think, that if he forgets, I'll forget too?"

"Oh Timber..." she rubs my side with her hoof, "he doesn't think anything like that."

"Then what?" I sniffle, I don't want to cry, but if he doesn't truly want to make up, then he must not love me. Then what was the act in the kitchen?

Mom sighs, "His father ended up the same way. It's just his age. He's losing his memory. Soon he won't remember making a cup of tea."

It can't be true. "His old age..." I guess. "He really doesn't remember?"

She shakes her head.

How could he do that? I mean... how could he...? He's barely fifty! "No! That's not fair. He ruined my life, destroyed Churner's heart! He nearly ripped off my ear. How could he forget?!" How dare he forget?

“He's just getting old, Timber, please don't blame him."

How could I not blame him? Everything was his fault! Now he just forgets? Like it never happened? It's like Old Stallion Time just broke him out of jail. I bury my face into my mother, wiping my eyes in her coat. She wraps her hooves around me. Besides how much I hate my father right now, all I can think of is that she's too soft. How I want an embrace that will support me, not envelope me. How, despite the fact she's my mother, she's not who I want. I don't even care how I'm repeating myself.

I cry into her body for some time. The worst part is, how can I face him again? I never got my closure from him. My father is somepony new, somepony who doesn't know me, not truly. How can I look at him without thinking that he abandoned me? And all he wants to do now is be my father. What kind of son does that make me?

I lift myself up and wipe my eyes. I make eye contact with mom and push a smile, pretending I’m content with the information. I take a deep breath and head inside. She follows soon after, turning to head upstairs while I continue onward to my bedroom.

I tried to relax for a few minutes before Dale came downstairs. The first thing he says is, “You feel like doing a dungeon sometime this week?”

I sigh, and laugh a little bit. “I don’t know, I’m not in the mood right now.” I kind of felt like a jerk, but mostly just didn’t want to talk to anypony right now.

“You seemed a little, distraught,” he points out. I notice the pause he took to decide on an adjective. “Today, talking to dad, I mean.”

“Yeah, there’ve been some issues with him.” I don’t know how much he knows about me or the situation in general. I’d better be careful about what I say, just in case.

“Mom told us everything.” Well, that clears things up. “At least, everything about dad. She didn’t mention a lot about you.” That complicates things.

“Did she tell you why dad was angry yesterday?” I inquire.

“No… Dad was angry?”

Right over his head, I guess. “Yeah, but I guess it doesn’t matter now.” I didn’t want him to know I was gay, if he didn’t already. Then again, how much worse could it get with him knowing? I guess I just really want him to leave so I can sleep.

“Why was he angry?” Damn.

“Look,” I attempt to dodge, “I’m really tired. I don’t really want to talk about it. I just want to go to bed.”

“Did it have to do with you kissing Churner?”

Dammit Dale. “Yep,” I sigh. “That’s exactly right.” I flop down onto my bed and let out a long sigh.

“Oh, okay,” he mumbles. “Sorry.” I remain quiet, hoping he totally understands the message. “Good night.”

“Night.” Thank you, for trying at least. You might have good intentions, Dale, but you can’t always put them to good use. I’ll see you in the morning.