Neil Roberts had found his only daughter sobbing on the floor of the foyer when he arrived home from work and for a moment, he thought the news had finally come. Robert Leckie was dead. And his heart ached for her and even for him. But when he was able to get her to calm down, to speak to her, she told him in a numb voice of all that had happened. It was shocking but not unheard of, though he'd dealt with more men who had shell shock and were unresponsive as well as unaware of their own lives.
This was different. And this wasn't something he could fix for her. Summer spent the next day in bed and Dr. Roberts took the day off, alternating between sitting in his study and fretting and standing outside Summer's door and fretting. But he couldn't do it long, not when he'd hear her sobs and it tore at his heart. He wondered what was worse for his dear daughter, Leckie's death or his forced indifference. But the next day he left his daughter to travel after her many reassurances that she'd be alright. But he was determined, that while in the city, he'd consult the best doctors there were and find a way to help, somehow, some way.
Summer was finally driven from her room out of necessity. Her stomach would not stand neglect any longer and she was forced to go downstairs and eat something. She'd spent the better part of two days crying, sleeping, or staring out her window. Taking a stack of his letters with her, she moved sat numbly in the kitchen, chewing on a piece of toast before she angrily flung the plate at the wall, watching it shatter, like her heart seemed to be doing. Over and over.
Finally, she moved to clean up the mess, face pale as she went about the task. That was when there was a knock at the door. She was in no mood for vistors, no mood at all. But there was no way for her to send the person away, the housemaid had left already and her father was gone. So she sighed softly, smoothed out the simple skirt and blouse she had on before moving to answer the door. Of course, it wasn't just any visitor, it was-- "Leckie?"
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This was different. And this wasn't something he could fix for her. Summer spent the next day in bed and Dr. Roberts took the day off, alternating between sitting in his study and fretting and standing outside Summer's door and fretting. But he couldn't do it long, not when he'd hear her sobs and it tore at his heart. He wondered what was worse for his dear daughter, Leckie's death or his forced indifference. But the next day he left his daughter to travel after her many reassurances that she'd be alright. But he was determined, that while in the city, he'd consult the best doctors there were and find a way to help, somehow, some way.
Summer was finally driven from her room out of necessity. Her stomach would not stand neglect any longer and she was forced to go downstairs and eat something. She'd spent the better part of two days crying, sleeping, or staring out her window. Taking a stack of his letters with her, she moved sat numbly in the kitchen, chewing on a piece of toast before she angrily flung the plate at the wall, watching it shatter, like her heart seemed to be doing. Over and over.
Finally, she moved to clean up the mess, face pale as she went about the task. That was when there was a knock at the door. She was in no mood for vistors, no mood at all. But there was no way for her to send the person away, the housemaid had left already and her father was gone. So she sighed softly, smoothed out the simple skirt and blouse she had on before moving to answer the door. Of course, it wasn't just any visitor, it was-- "Leckie?"