[She supposes she knows what he's talking about. She had a vague sense that regardless of all the shit she pulled, her mother wanted nothing but the best for her, the best for them. The problem with her mother was that she was too wild a heart, stuck to a dream of ravenous romance that was only fuelled by the Harley Davidson her father left her. She still remembered the occasional scent of alcohol, gasoline and fumes that stuck to her mother's clothes, even when they were huddling together for warmth under the patchwork blanket she wore now as a tunic every now and then. She figures that parents were always like this, a little reckless but always well-intended.]
[So she sighs, and her voice acquires a small, nostalgia-laced and fragile lilt - one that is rare, unconsciously smothered by that "move on, move on, move on" attitude that adds the gait to her walk.] You can't really blame them, right?
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[So she sighs, and her voice acquires a small, nostalgia-laced and fragile lilt - one that is rare, unconsciously smothered by that "move on, move on, move on" attitude that adds the gait to her walk.] You can't really blame them, right?