The moment you and your husband, Primo, welcomed your son into the world, you fell in love all over again. He was absolutely perfect. The moment you named him, Elio, you knew that you would love him more than anything in this world, from that moment and on.

But, dear Satan, did he make you want to strangle him sometimes.

He was a good kid. He really tried to be, but he just had a few problems that always seemed to get in the way. He was a very opinionated little boy, and while you tried to teach him to speak his mind, it didn't always work out the best when he called the Sister of Sin trying to teach an English class a 'miserable old hag.' (Secretly, you and Primo both agreed, but she didn't need to know that!)

The boy also possessed a severe case of the butterfingers. Although his mental power made up for his lack of physical prowess, you did wish holding things upright was on his list of skills. It was quickly learned that most of your glass and ceramic home decor was to go and stay on the top shelves, where he couldn't reach.

Despite his struggles, even at age thirteen, the Ministry wasn't willing to give up on him. He was the son of a Papa. He was held to high expectations. Even if it wasn't the usual activity assigned to a clergy member's son, it was deemed safe enough for some of the Sisters of Sin to bring him into the kitchen to assist with lunch preparations.

"Do you think it was a bad idea to let him work in the kitchen?" Your husband's voice was concerned as he spoke. It made you doubt for only a moment, before you quickly scolded yourself. Your son wasn't going to improve at anything if you doubted him. What a silly thing of him to say.

"Achoo!"

Or not. The door to your shared chambers busted open, and Primo quickly sat his newspaper on his lap as of course, Elio, came tumbling in, covered in flower and what looked like... jam? They weren't even supposed to be cooking with jam.

He cleared his throat, cheeks flushed with embarrassment. "H-Hi, Mom."