“Well,” Little Hope said, rubbing her tiny forehooves together as she avoided making eye contact. She lifted her gaze to one of the many kitten posters on the wall, then closed her eyes and squeezed a plush toy. “My daddy beats me.”

Mrs. Turnbuckle nodded somberly as she scribbled onto a notepad she held in her magic. She spent a moment staring over the top of her glasses at her notes. “Wait,” she said with a furrowed brow. “Didn’t you say that you’re an orphan?”

“Yes, ma’am,” the filly replied with a polite nod.

“So, you mean to say that your stepfather beats you? Or somepony who has adopted you?”

Little Hope shook her head. “No, it’s my father.”

Turnbuckle pursed her lips and studied the young filly while a clock on the bookshelf ticked softly. After a moment, she took a shallow breath. “Ah, I don’t mean to put this indelicately, but…  Are you saying that your [i]deceased[/i] father beats you?”

“Mmm-hmmm. He’s a ghost, and he haunts me.”

“I… suppose that stranger things have happened in Ponyville.” She turned and glanced out the window at a courtyard where she had seen magical duels, mythical beasts, and malevolent demigods. Ghosts, though? She cleared her throat. “Has your… mother’s ghost tried to stop this?”

Little Hope gave a tiny smile. “Oh, yes, she tries.” The smile melted away. “She mostly tells him that I’m not worth getting excited about.”

Turnbuckle scribbled into her notes. “I see. Do you believe your mother really feels this way?” [i]Or do you realize that you’re projecting your own feelings onto your imaginary mother?[/i] she didn’t add out loud.

“Well, that [i]is[/i] what she wrote in her suicide note. [i]‘I’m tired of dealing with your bullshit, Little Hope,’[/i] was her exact words.”

“Oh my go—” Turnbuckle dropped her notepad. She bent over to pick it up from under her desk, taking a moment out of the filly’s sight to catch a few deep breaths. When she sat up, it was with a firmly plastic smile. “I’m sorry, Little Hope, and I almost never say this, but, your mother was a terrible pony. It was wrong of her to blame you for her mental illness.”

Little Hope sighed. “Oh, she wasn’t so bad. She just had a lot to deal with, you know? Like me, for starters.” She buried her muzzle in the stuffed puppy in her hooves. “And my cancer.”

“You have cancer!?”

The filly chuckled. “I don’t know. The doctors said the chemotherapy would [i]probably[/i] work. It did make my fur fall out, so I think it must be working.”

Turnbuckle sighed and shook her head with smile. “You’re quite a storyteller, miss Little Hope. But your fur is a beautiful blue with a very healthy sheen.”

“Oh, that. The dermatologist at Ponyville General said it’s, uh… [i]sporotrichosis.[/i] A fungal infection due to my suppressed immune system. I don’t complain about it because I think it’s pretty, and I’m glad that you do, too, but my fur is actually yellow.”

The mare set her notebook on the desk and squinted at the child. “Your fur is… actually just blue fuzz from mold that’s growing over your entire body?”

“It itches. Bad.” She sniffled. “The doctor said I got it because I sleep on a pile of moldy hay ever since my cardboard box melted from the rain.”

With a heavy sigh, Turnbuckle rested her chin on a hoof and stared at Little Hope. The filly smiled back with impossibly large eyes. Turnbuckle opened a desk drawer and pulled out a little book. “Let’s see if we can’t find you a foster home, then. I’m sorry that your life has been such a sad story, but many ponies who have gone through such difficult situations can still find purpose and fulfillment in life.”

“Oh, it’s not all bad.”

“Oh yeah?” Turnbuckle glanced up from her book. “I’d love to hear about the joys in your life.”

“Well, lots of folks feel too guilty to downvote a sad story.”

“Wait.” Turnbuckle dropped the book to her desk. “What?”