Song: You by The Pretty Reckless
TW: Mentions of self-harm, eating disorders, and drug abuse
AN: This fic is going to have a few chapters that jump back in time, to provide a little insight into what Victoria and Roger went through in the three years they were apart. Hopefully this won't get too confusing; I'll always write the date at the start of the chapter if there is going to be a jump back in time. Otherwise, the main body of this fic will be set in the Summer of 1974.
2nd October 1971
Victoria's Pov
Return to sender. That's how all the letters came back to me, with the original address still neatly scrawled across the envelope, the stamp still perched at the corner of the crisp white paper, uncrumpled, the seal unbroken. No sign that they had been opened, or even touched by another person. Touched by him.
Sighing softly, I tossed the letter into a pile designated for such things; there was a stack of five other, unopened letters already gathering there, all addressed to the same person, all having met the same fate. Every time I sent them, the hope I held on to that he would receive them, that he would write back, returned to me, just to be slowly crushed when this dreaded moment eventually came.
I don't know why I kept putting myself through it, why I couldn't just give up? Give up hoping and praying that he would come back, hoping that he would be able to solve all this, to solve the mess I had gotten us into, the claw me out of this depression I had fallen into, and couldn't find my way out of. To be there for me, whether that was as a friend, or merely someone to help me care for my daughter. If it was in any capacity whatsoever, I would be grateful for his help.
At this moment, I would beg for him, on my hands and knees to come back, just to save us from the financial ruin we faced. Two months behind on rent for an apartment I hated, covered in thick sludges of mould and damp, scraping the change at the bottom of my purse every time Lola needed a new batch of baby formula, wasting away slowly because I couldn't afford to feed myself, only her. The knowledge that there was nothing I could do to solve this, short of begging, or prostitution, eating me alive each day. Me and Lola were completely alone here, in a new town, seeing as my parents were so disappointed that I had a child out of wedlock they refused to let us stay with them until I could find somewhere better; it wasn't like I could trust anyone to look after Lola or afford a babysitter to watch her whilst I got a job. We were fucked.
I had failed at the only thing I had to do now; caring for her.
And there was no one who could get me out of this mess.
The only person who could, the only person I felt comfortable turning to for help, even after all that had happened between us, still hadn't forgiven me.
Lola's cry snapped me out of my thoughts, bringing me back to reality. I hastily wiped away the tears that had coated my cheeks as I made my way into the bedroom, determined to put on a brave face, and be there for my daughter. She was only a baby, barely able to recognise faces, much less encompassing the ability to read peoples emotions, but I still couldn't let myself show weakness around her, however small. If I started allowing myself to cry around Lola, then I truly never would stop. Caring for her, was the only time I felt any emotion other than worry, sadness and numbness. I couldn't let those feelings creep into that time too.
I had been diagnosed with Post-natal depression around six months after giving birth to Lola. According to the nurse, it was a normal medical phenomena for women like myself, who gave birth young, and alone, and had nobody by their side to guide them through motherhood. Girls who had no social life, other than caring for their baby. Girls who had no meaningful conversations with strangers, or anybody else for that matter; the girls whose only form of human interaction was with the assistant at the supermarket as they scanned their baby formula and other assortment of baby items, and the midwives who did home visits to ensure baby was well looked after. Girls who could barely afford to make rent, barely afford to eat, barely afford to spend money on anything that wasn't the bare essentials for their child. Girls who lived in run down apartments, where the hot water and heating barely worked, where the walls and surfaces were so grimy and mouldy that they spent half of their lives scrubbing them furiously, terrified of the health repercussions for their child. Girls whose children had fathers, but who were no longer in their lives. Girls who regularly coughed up blood, or had dizzy spells so ferocious they could barely stand up Girls who had to deal with the overwhelming loneliness of knowing that without their daughters, they would have nothing or no one to live for.
