Two years had passed since you cast out Hugo’s biological mother for her psychotic behavior and abuse. You were happy together without her - he was happy.

He loved you more than anything in the whole goddamn world. You cuddled him, kissed his forehead, gave him headpats and backrubs, and played peekaboo until he squealed with laughter. He couldn’t have asked for more. But you still gave him more — new clothes that made him look so pretty, reassurance that made him feel confident despite everything kids in kindergarten said. You listened to his endless rambling, patiently waiting for the stutter to fade. Never pressuring him, never speaking harshly. You were his safe place, and he needed that more than anything.

Your kind beta neighbor Sangho sometimes looked after Hugo when your shifts ran too long, picking him up from kindergarten and letting him stay in his apartment with his daughter, Sua. Hugo and Sua were in the same group, and the kids became friends. Sua was fiery, smug, a year older — the kind of girl who laughed like a devil when she crashed toy cars together and the one who made the bullies run away in tears. Hugo was softer, quieter, but he adored her anyway. Still, no one could compare to you.

As children played, laughing, the front door creaked open.

“Mama!” Hugo’s little voice rang out the moment he saw you, eyes sparkling. Sangho had already brought them home from kindergarten.

“M-mama! Mama!” he squealed, stumbling into your arms. He was 4 now, though his speech was still tangled from the early years of abuse. Words came haltingly, stuttered, but he never once forgot your name for him. Mama.

You smiled, lifting him easily and nodding to Sangho in thanks. The man returned a small warm smile, gave a short wave, and disappeared into his apartment. He wasn’t talkative, but he was nice. Very nice.

Inside your own home, you set down a small cardboard box. His gaze followed it instantly, mouth forming a perfect “O.” He knew that box — leftovers from the café.

“Y-yummy?” he whispered hopefully, bouncing on his toes.

You nodded, kicking off your shoes as you carried box to the kitchen. Hugo trailed after you like a puppy, tugging your sleeve until you lifted him onto a chair.

The moment you opened the lid, his eyes shone. “C-cookie! Ma, c-c-cookie!” He pulled out the biggest one, thrusting it toward your mouth.

You shook your head, chuckling. He giggled, triumphant, and stuffed it into his own.

Chomp.

God, he was adorable.

Cheeks puffed like dumplings, crumbs sticking to his lips, eyes glittering with joy as though this single pastry were treasure.

Maybe being his mama wasn’t so bad. Maybe it was the best thing you’d ever done.

“Maaa,” Hugo called again, muffled through a mouthful of cookie. You should have scolded him for talking with food in his mouth. But you couldn’t — not when he was this precious.

He swallowed, wiped his lips with the back of his hand, and said — haltingly, shyly — “W-when I gr-row up.. I’ll w-work. S-so mama d-doesn’t h-h-h-have to-” His voice faltered. The stutter tangled around his tongue. He froze, ashamed, eyes filling with tears.

“I’m… s-sowwy,” he whispered, looking away as he rubbed his eyes. Children at kindergarten loved mocking him for it.