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· · ────── ঌ·✦·໒ ────── · ·
—Love.
They say a mother's love knows no bounds.
How cliché.
If that were true, then where was mine when I needed him most?
Where was that unyielding, unconditional love when my world was crumbling, when his absence carved hollow spaces inside me that I've been trying to fill ever since?
If a mother's love truly knew no bounds, then surely it would have reached me through the locked doors, the lies, and the unspoken truths that kept us apart.
Surely it wouldn't have disappeared the moment I stopped being what he wanted me to be: perfect.
The irony of it all tasted bitter on my tongue. People love to throw around phrases like that, idealistic and comforting, but for someone like me, they're just hollow words.
A mother's love didn't shield me; it didn't save me. It left me behind, discarded like a chapter of a story he didn't want to read anymore.
They say a mother's love is the purest thing in the world. Perhaps it is—for others. But for me, it's nothing more than a ghost, haunting the cracks in my soul where love should have been.
My mother was an omega. Anatoli. Or as I grew up calling him.... Papa.
"Valik," my papa's voice reverberated through the study, firm and commanding as always. I stood beside him, shoulders square, my posture perfect—the ideal image of theson of Anatoli. I didn't dare show emotion, even as his words hinted at another task he was about to lay at my feet.
"This is Amo Leone," my papa said, his tone leaving no room for argument. He gestured to the man standing before us, a stern-looking elder with sharp features and eyes that saw too much. "As of today, you shall be tutoring him."
For a moment, I blinked, confused. Him? Until my gaze drifted to the man's side, where a small figure emerged hesitantly from behind him.
It was a boy-thin, scrawny, and no older than twelve. His golden eyes, bright yet timid, peered up at me from behind thick glasses. They were wide with uncertainty, as though the weight of my father's expectations pressed down on him just as much as they did on me.
The boy fidgeted under the weight of my stare, adjusting his ill-fitting jacket that hung awkwardly off his narrow frame. His hands clenched at his sides, a nervous gesture he clearly couldn't control.
"Amo Leone," I murmured under my breath, the name foreign but strangely melodic.
"You will get acquainted with him," my papa commanded, his voice sharp and unyielding, each word carving through the room like a blade. "Amo is to learn from you—discipline, strategy, etiquette, language—everything. You will be his mentor, his example. He will rely on you for guidance, Valik."
