It seems I am a failure.
All was going well in the very beginning. You are a strong healthy lad, Branston, but I am simply not able to produce enough milk to feed you. I feel such shame, but your woeful cries, as the days and nights passed that I could not satisfy your hunger, gave me enough cause to raise my stooped head and find you a wet nurse.
I struggled as best I could feeding you until my strength was all but drained. It took some time to find someone suitable, the wet nurse your Father suggested, did not respond to my letters, I asked him to speak with her some time ago, but he is a busy man, I'm sure he would help us if he had the time. He will visit soon, you'll see.
Her name is Aanya, a young girl of just sixteen summers or so. Her tale is a tragic one, her own babe was taken from her, it was the will of the Gods. She is a pleasant lass, and her milk is rich, whereas my own is all but gone. I shall speak no more of such things, or I will despise myself more than I already do, what manner of woman am I? who cannot feed her own child?
Forgive the musings of a tired mother, we shall both rest now...
Aanya
