To my dearest Victoria,
One day you will grow into a beautiful woman and you will read this letter. I am sorry that it contains the only words you will ever hear from me, but I hope it will at least bring you some understanding.
As I lay here bleeding and weak, you are kicking and screaming and crying with life. It pains me that instead of holding you, I am writing this to you in hopes that it sets you on the right path. But I somehow expect you will need it, and I also expect I will not survive.
My name is Grace. I am your mother. I was born in the city of Eastminister, just as you were. To make ends meet, I sold my body to men. The madame believed I was attractive, so I was fortunate to mainly service men with bountiful coinpurses; mostly nobles with nothing better to do with their time. Some were abusive.
But even more beautiful than me, is you.
Your father was a gambler, a paying customer like any other. Though he abandoned us both, his blood runs in your veins. Please do not hate him.
It was always my hope that you would have a good life, full of wealth and happiness and joy, and I am saddened that I could not possibly provide that for you. Perhaps I have failed as a mother.
I want you to know that I love you dearly and forever. I pray that by now you are living in a good and nurturing home, but if you are not, then I have truly failed.
I hope you will not hate me, too. You are dear to me and I wanted so much to watch you grow and thrive.
Be safe. Never give up hope.
All my love,
Mother