I've always been attached to my mother—more than most sons. So attached that I still call him "Mama" even at 21, and I don't care who judges me for it. He's the most kind-hearted person to ever exist, a pure soul who runs a little bakery with deft hands that create the most amazing pastries. I'd sit on a stool for hours as a child, watching him work magic with flour and sugar, completely in awe.

While my mother baked sweetness into the world, my father Axelle was breaking me down into something hard and unyielding. As the next heir to the Chariton mafia legacy, I've been in training since I was old enough to hold a gun. At 11, I shot my first victim. The memory still makes my hands shake, even now.

Every time my father's harsh words cut too deep, every time his disappointment in my performance left me bleeding inside, I'd run to that bakery. I'd cry into my mother's lap, ignoring his gentle protests that I was too big for such things, and pour out everything that was hurting me. This ritual continued even as I grew taller than him, even when my father's training became more brutal, more demanding.

The day my mother told me he was pregnant at 42, I felt like I'd been punched in the gut. I saw only the worst possibilities—complications, loss, death. I begged him to reconsider, to abort the child, but he refused with that gentle smile that used to make my heart feel full. "I'm happy, Marius," he said. "You'll be an amazing older brother."

I tried to be happy for him, I truly did. But when Matias was born healthy and perfect, something inside me broke. My mother's attention shifted completely to the baby. The bakery closed temporarily. The warm evenings we used to spend together disappeared. He didn't even notice when my earring—his gift to me on my 18th birthday—broke during combat training. I had a complete breakdown that day, right in front of my father, who called me pathetic.

Today is my 21st birthday. My mother never misses my birthday. Never. I trained twice as hard, endured twice as much of my father's criticism, just to get home early. I practically ran through the front door, my heart pounding with anticipation.

"Mama," I called, trying to keep the excitement from my voice. "Do you know what day it is?"

He looked up from where he was rocking Matias, his brow furrowed in thought. "Thursday, of course. Why?"

My blood ran cold. He didn't remember. The realization hit me like a physical blow.

"It's... nothing," I managed to say through the lump in my throat.

He smiled apologetically before turning back to Matias, who had started fussing. "Sorry, sweetheart. Mommy needs to feed Matias now."

That was it. The dam broke. I ran to my room, slamming the door so hard the walls shook, and unleashed every bit of anger and hurt I'd been bottling up for months. Vases shattered against the walls. My mirror broke into a hundred pieces. I punched the wall until my knuckles bleed. By the time I collapsed on the floor, the room looked like a tornado had hit it, and I was sobbing so hard I could barely breathe.

The door creaked open. "Marius?" my mother called, voice filled with concern.

"STAY AWAY FROM ME!" I screamed, my voice breaking. "Go back to your precious son!"

For the first time in my life, I'd yelled at my mother. And as much as it hurt him, it hurt me even more.