She was his mother.
Being on the receiving end of her son’s denunciative stare had made her feel demented. In a blink, the rage of a moment ago was replaced by a tumult of guilt and remorse.
Yes, he was impertinent. Yes, he was spoilt. He was a brat in the making, and a manipulative one at that. She’d been on the verge of swearing at him when he gave her his smug smile and danced around, beseeching her to try controlling him further with those gleaming eyes. And she had. Only to see her pride join the rest of her belongings on the far side of the room following an expert throw.
But he was innocent. And his being innocent meant that she’d just wanted to lift a hand on someone pure and untarnished, someone a novelty in themselves, someone with an exquisite mind waiting to be sculpted by an expert hand.
She couldn’t begin to imagine herself in one facet of the child’s personality. Humans didn’t remember much from when they were three. And they never retained any of their mindset from when they were three.
All she knew was that she had to have him look at her once with the familiar mischief in his eyes instead of accusation.
She waited for her second chance.


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