[ Ellen knows Jo has been here for two years. She's been trying to turn it around in her head for the last two days. She's seen first hand the kind of response that mentioning Jo's name brings up from those around them. How many people had stopped to tell her where Jo was? How many had reached out to Ellen simply because she was Jo's mother? She knew that Jo had made her mark on this place, had made a life for herself here and she was as proud about that as a mother could be, but...
But that didn't make swallowing this new bit of information down any easier. How long had Ellen alternately hoped that someday Jo would have the love that her and Bill had and dreaded that her daughter would ever have to experience the kind of pain that came from losing the man that she'd built a life with. When Jo was little Ellen used to tell her stories of drive in dates and small, country weddings with a handful of close friends as she pulled her hair back into pigtails. When she was older she had told Jo of widows and orphans. Of broken homes and broken dreams and why it was important to at least try the normal life.
She'd hoped that she'd meet some nice boy at school. That the promise of a home and family of her own would be enough to get her to settle down and give up the dream of being a hunter. And even when that had gone to hell, Ellen had still held out some kind of hope that someday, someone would come along and change Jo's mind.
That day had never come. And sitting here staring down her daughter and hearing the frustration and anger in her voice, Ellen is hit full force again with the fact that things were never going to happen for Jo that way.
Ellen's jaw tightens, not in anger, but in an effort to control her grief from getting the better of her. She looks away from Jo, blinking upward and then away from her.
She's right. Ellen knows she's right, but she wanted so much more for her. Ellen clears her throat, turning her head away from Jo.]
And is this going to do that for you? [ Ellen's voice is gruff. ] Make you happy?
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But that didn't make swallowing this new bit of information down any easier. How long had Ellen alternately hoped that someday Jo would have the love that her and Bill had and dreaded that her daughter would ever have to experience the kind of pain that came from losing the man that she'd built a life with. When Jo was little Ellen used to tell her stories of drive in dates and small, country weddings with a handful of close friends as she pulled her hair back into pigtails. When she was older she had told Jo of widows and orphans. Of broken homes and broken dreams and why it was important to at least try the normal life.
She'd hoped that she'd meet some nice boy at school. That the promise of a home and family of her own would be enough to get her to settle down and give up the dream of being a hunter. And even when that had gone to hell, Ellen had still held out some kind of hope that someday, someone would come along and change Jo's mind.
That day had never come. And sitting here staring down her daughter and hearing the frustration and anger in her voice, Ellen is hit full force again with the fact that things were never going to happen for Jo that way.
Ellen's jaw tightens, not in anger, but in an effort to control her grief from getting the better of her. She looks away from Jo, blinking upward and then away from her.
She's right. Ellen knows she's right, but she wanted so much more for her. Ellen clears her throat, turning her head away from Jo.]
And is this going to do that for you? [ Ellen's voice is gruff. ] Make you happy?