A pink tulle, a kind of prettier dress. I'm perfect. On the morning of May 29th, my mother is proud of me. She had been Angelwood's Queen in her eighteens. I am carrying her legacy on my shoulders, and today she finally believes I will be victorious. "I wouldn't expect any less from our daughter" Mother says. She smiles at me: it creases her mouth in an unnatural way. "Doesn't Ethereality look like Angelwood's Queen already?" My father nods his agreement. "Yes", he tells me, "An Estridge in her finest." (I've done this before. I've had this talk before, on May 29th, oh I remember it so clearly.) (Father, he'll look over my dress.) Father looks over my dress. He is not glinting with as much pride as Mother. But he approves. (Mother, she'll squeeze my fingers.) Mother squeezes my fingers, as delicate as a dove. Her smile is no less unnatural. But it fits her. (And I, I'll pay gratitude.) "Thank you," I say. "I'm really happy you think that." (They'll gaze at me with so much love and pride and feeling.) I smile. I leave.