[JOJO] BOSS Survival Diary

"......do not Cry."

Trish opened his eyes.

She lifted the quilt and sat up, raised her little soft hand and rubbed the corners of her eyes, only to realize that she was dreaming again.

...Why can't I forget it all the time.

I can't forget the cautious look on the man's face at that time.

The girl rolled over from the bed, put on the new skirt she bought two days ago, and walked to the window to take a deep breath.

It was neither hot nor cold and it was not raining.

It's a fine day.

"Mom—wake up—!!"

Trish knocked on the door of his mother's room.

Recently, my mother got up later and later, and it was her who came to wake her up.

But she also knew why.

The weakness of the body forced her to spend more time in bed and rest.

But I have to get up early today.

Terry wondered.

Today is the day to make an appointment with the doctor, and someone is coming to the house.

Donatella opened the door after a while, knelt down and rubbed her daughter's head.

"Sorry, Trish, I got up late." She kissed the girl's forehead, and then said with a smile, "Then, can I make breakfast before Mommy changes?"

"Well, it's not impossible! Sandwiches, right?" Trish said, "...but there seems to be no milk at home."

"You can also drink tea, don't burn your hands when you boil the water."

"I'm not that stupid!" Trish snorted, "Hurry up, the doctor says he'll be there at nine."

"Yes Yes."

I don't know who is taking care of whom.

Trish has long been used to taking care of his sick mother, but this level is of course not a problem-but occasionally breakfast scrambled eggs and household hygiene still requires the use of a chair.

Although my mother would say that she can do it herself, the doctor still told me to rest more.

...She just looks healthy.

Trish thought while lighting the stove.

She always put on a spirited look in front of her, but in the middle of the night she covered her mouth and coughed in the house.

She would put on pretty makeup, but after removing it, only paleness remained.

She never talked about her illness, nor would she show a mournful face in front of her daughter.But that kind of gentle look with a smile...

...It was that kind of gentle look that made Trixiu want to blame his father even more.

Trish had asked about his father.

Earlier, when I was completely unaware of my mother's mood, I asked many things about that person——

What is his name?what does he look likeWhat kind of person is he?What does he do?Why did he leave them?

The child asked one question after another, like poking a hole in a casserole.

At this time, Donatella will show a gentle and helpless look——

But he was stubborn and didn't answer her question.

She never mentioned him, never said anything about him.

But when Trish asked questions, she could always see love in her eyes.

Then she stopped asking.

The girl realizes that asking these mothers will never give an answer, and even these questions will only remind her of the past.

She hides her love in the cracks of time.

No matter what is soft and beautiful, sad and painful, it is her own thing.

She loved the father she had never met.

She loves the husband who she doesn't know will never meet again.

To this day, Trish doesn't even know his father's name.

Maybe it was very indignant at the beginning, but in the end, there was more helplessness left.Rather than trying to find out about that bastard father who doesn't know what he looks like, it's better to find a way to take care of his mother's body.

The girl even planned to put a big cross on his face with a red marker whenever she saw him, um, symbolizing shamelessness.

The girl finished making breakfast with her short hands and feet, and then went upstairs to ask her mother to come down.

Donatella had already changed her dress.

She sat at the table and tapped her daughter's head with a fork before eating.

"What are you thinking?" She said with a smile, "Why is my little princess so sad?"

"...The milkman should have come yesterday." Trish whispered, "Did he get involved in some gang accident?"

"Hmm...Maybe it's something at home? Or the replacement is not familiar with the way?" Donatella blinked, "So, it's been a bit messy lately..."

"That's right! So just stay at home and always talk about going to the sea..."

"..."

Donatella froze for a moment, then smiled helplessly.

Trish was familiar with this smile.

Whenever she mentioned something related to that person, she had this expression.

Trish grumbled, but didn't continue.

Nibbles on the sandwich as if venting anger, like it's some jerk.

At nine o'clock, the doctor came.

Donatella always kept Trish in the house during diagnosis, perhaps out of fear that she would hear about the illness, or perhaps simply because she wanted to be alone after each diagnosis.

And when Trish saw her again, she always put a smile on her face.

At the end of the diagnosis it was time to prepare lunch again, but apparently it wasn't as ready as breakfast... Donatella rummaged through the refrigerator at home and decided reluctantly to take Trisheu out.

She called to her daughter who was sitting on the sofa, and the girl closed the book in her hand before trotting over.

"I've read a lot of books recently." She took the book from the girl's hand, "Do you like any of them?"

"No particular favorite..."

"Hmm... ah." Donatella first flipped through the book in her hand, and then took out the plant bookmark sealed in the sheet with a rope, "The bookmark was only available after I went to Switzerland last time. Is it a tourist product?"

Trixie was stunned, looking at the bookmark in his mother's hand, he couldn't find a word to explain it for a while.

"No, I bought it."

She hesitated to speak, thinking that she couldn't blame her uncle for picking the flowers.

"but--"

but......

She thought about that day again.

The day men crouched before her and held up dewy flowers before her weeping.

It was as if he could still see the flustered expression of the man hastily looking away, and even his knees, whose wounds had long since healed, were faintly hot.

Flowers seem to have the ability to heal wounds, and tears evaporate like dew on them.

She can't read what a man sees.

A complex and sour emotion that cannot be described in any words.

but--

"But . . . something important," she said.

But even so, she was still aware of it.

It is not the flowers, nor the dew on them, that matter.

but something else.

Such things make a flower more precious than any famous flower, and more soothing than any language.

"......yes."

The woman was startled, then rubbed her daughter's head, and did not continue to ask.

The author has something to say: I love small cakes.

Mrs Donna liked it too.

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