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By Julie Grenness

Finally, Chantelle turned 21. She would now open the sacred letter her mother composed after her birth. Chantelle polished her glasses and began to read.

“Dear Chantelle, This is Mummy’s love letter to you. I will present it to you on the momentous event of your 21^st birthday. I am resting here, feeling euphoric. I am gazing in wonder, knowing that I have made a human. You look so perfect; I checked. You are lying in your bassinet, swathed in pink.”

“Dear Chantelle, I delivered you in the usual way, obstetrically. Your father and I did not need IVF, which is an understatement. I realise I shall spend the next 18 years delivering you everywhere in my car. I shall do so with a minimum of fuss, nothing to discuss and a woman’s touch.”

“Dear Chantelle, As I lie here, sharing this unique time, I am telling you now, you are going to be doctor. You shall marry a doctor. You are going to drive a gold sports car. You are going to live in a mansion. Then I am moving in with you.”

“Dear Chantelle, You are adorable. You totally inherited your good looks from my side of your family tree. You have my beautiful blue eyes, my attractive dark hair and my cute nose. I might let you marry either a doctor, or an engineer, if your future husband does not like the squishy bits. He can build your mansion. You, too, will have good looking babies, my grandkids. You and your future husband can keep me in the first-world luxuries in which I am going to raise you.”

“Dear Chantelle, I am going to repeat this success story for the next 18 years. You are going to be a doctor; you are going to marry a doctor or an engineer. I have started a fund for your therapist, after you have listened to your mummy.”

“Dear Chantelle, As I lie here, enchanted with my creation, I am planning to divorce your father. He should not have disappeared after fainting during our childbirth. I suspect he is drunk somewhere. He definitely should have been here with my floral tributes and assorted pink toys to celebrate your arrival."

“Dear Chantelle, You are going to be a doctor; you are going to marry a doctor or an engineer. We are going to live together with my grandchildren in your mansion. That is after I have potty trained you. You shall be a success and so shall I. Your father is so going to contribute financially to your fund for your therapist.

This is my love letter. Much love from your Mummy.

Chantelle stared at this epistle about her family tree. Had she really read that with her spectacles? Her fiancée, the engineer, texted, sending her the plans he had designed for their happy home, after their nuptials.

Sighing, Chantelle opened her medical texts, to write another assignment about squishy bits. Then she emailed her therapist.

“Dear Dr. Shrink, Today I turned 21. Can I divorce my mother?”

The therapist responded. “Dear Chantelle, Of course. Here is your invoice. Send it to your mother.”

Chantelle fist-pumped the air. After all, she was from the good looking side of her family tree!

— Julie Grenness

Julie Grenness is a poet and writer in Australia. She’s a former teacher who now tutors and mentors young people.