Talk:Ileana's Stuff/@comment-4423292-20140907211500/@comment-4423292-20140914055639

It's an old picture. The ink's a bit discolored and faded, and the paper a bit dirty. Behind the minor tarnishes stands a woman. She's young, in her mid twenties perhaps. But she's tired, worn down, overwhelmed. Every inch of her screams that. Her hair is a light blond, although with darker low-lights. Dirty, tangled, disheveled. A jumper and jeans, just as unkempt as her hair.

On either side of her is a child, both them both about three. They're just as bedraggled as their mother, but messier. She doesn't want to look this way; they do.

The woman's leaning over slightly to talk to the little girl on her right side (although left to someone looking at the picture). The girl's hair is baby-fine, and although tangled far worse than her mother's, the exact same colour, the same pale blond. The family resemblance is plain to see.

In her other hand, she holds the hand of a boy of the same age. His hair is just as baby-fine, just as long, and just as matted. But the resemblance ends there. Once you look past their matching hair and fat babyish cheeks, they don't look much alike. He's bigger than her, and his hair colour is unlike his mother's or sister's. Presumably it echos that of his father.

The woman is trying to get the little girl to stand still, but she's pulling back, trying to get her hand out of her mother's grasp. She's looking over at her brother, on their mother's other side. He's standing still, not talking or fighting, but he's trying to catch his sister's eye, to give her a significant, knavish look.

And they're caught there, internally struggling in the picture, as their mother tries to get them to stand still for a picture.