Stimulus choice of font. Something about the way

Stimulus – plant emerging from egg “Here lies the body of William Grey… 19/10/2004-31/3/2011…”Reading those two lines prompted Vivian’s stomach to let go of breakfast. It had been three months since her son’s death, but she hadn’t quite reconciled with her choice of font. Something about the way the letters curved didn’t quite fit the Ebony Mist granite Vivian selected. It was what she had deemed an impulse decision. Being the mother of two (now one) was riddled with impulse decisions. The kind that Vivian didn’t handle well. She tended to operate systematically — drop kids off at school, go to work, pick kids up from school, go home. Now it had changed — drop kid off at school, go to work, pick kid up from school, go home. The wind tickled her four untamed wisps of hair, indicative of her rushed nature that morning. The bank was celebrating its 75th anniversary and Vivian had offered to bring decorations and bake the cake. After much dispute, her colleagues finally accepted her offer to help in the celebration. She had always gone above and beyond and everyone envied her ability to raise two children (now one) as a single mother and excel at the bank. Vivian knew this, she lived for the praise. She combed back her hair and drove her oversized sunglasses back up the bridge of her nose. She wore them the way mourning women wear sunglasses to hide their puffy, exhausted eyes. Although Vivian’s eyes weren’t puffy and exhausted. In fact, she wasn’t tired at all. Vivian almost always wore sunglasses outside because God forbid she start developing those unsightly crow’s feet at the corners of her eyes. The drive home was as if she was on autopilot. She had visited the cemetery so many times, she could map the route with her eyes closed. This was Vivian’s third visit to the grave that week. She kept going back searching for something, some kind of conclusion. The fact was she didn’t feel a thing. Her son had just died and Vivian didn’t feel a thing. The daily returning home ritual was as follows… Park car, check mailbox, enter house, sort mail into one of three categories:BillsBank StatementsMiscellaneous That day’s letters sorted into categories one and three. She opened the miscellaneous letter and as she read, the numb feeling returned. The letter read.. “Dear Ms Franklin,This letter is to notify you of my client, Robert Grey’s intention to gain full custody of Annabelle Grey. We request that you attend a meeting at my offices to cordially discuss the details of this transfer of custody without the necessity to take this matter to court, in which event Mr. Grey will seek legal resolution to obtain such custody on the grounds that it is unsuitable for Annabelle Grey to remain under care and supervision of an inadequate parent.”Vivian kept going over the words “inadequate parent”. She tried to think of an instance when the word “inadequate” had been used to describe her or anything she had done. Unable to recall an occasion, she began to question why he had reached out for custody without any previous interest. Could he think that Vivian was the cause of their son’s death? Did he think she wasn’t capable? For the first time, Vivian questioned her abilities. She had always seemed to have a utilitarian approach to parenting; from her perspective, it got the job done. Love, whatever it was, was never factored into the equation. She had done all she could, and now it was not enough. The feeling of inadequacy was beginning to creep in. Everything was just the way it needed to be in her eyes. She had a great job, perfect house and she had good kids. She was admired and envied by others. Now all of that was falling apart. Her stability was vanishing. She didn’t love her kids, but she loved the idea of them. She loved the way other parents would look at her when she dropped her kids at school, the way she could cook for more than one, the way they made her beautiful house feel less empty. She’ll still be cooking for more than one, but one less than that, would be unbearable.  Vivian knew she had to fight. It was no longer about the praise. It wasn’t about the idea of her children child, it was about her child. She searched through her address book and dialled William Lowe, her lawyer. Word Count : 749