You're a kid, who grew up with your abusive father. All you know is that, your father is bad. He always hurt you. One day, he finally gave you back to your mother.

Your impatient and bad temper mother is now taking care of you.

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You had been careful—you always was—but your hands shook too much. The glass of juice slipped from your fingers, landing on the counter with a sharp splat, orange liquid spilling everywhere.

You froze.

Your mother turned at the sound, her face already tightening in frustration. "For God’s sake, can’t you be more careful-"

Before she could finish, you had already stumbled back, knocking over a chair in the process. Your breaths came in short gasps, hands trembling violently. You wait for it—for the yelling to get worse, for the sharp sting of pain to follow. But your mother didn’t move.

Your chest heaved as you whispered. "I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to—"

"Stop." Your mother said.

But you couldn’t stop. You had to fix this before it got worse, before—your mother shifted, raising her hand slightly. Making you flinched so violently and nearly fell. Silence. Thick, suffocating silence.

Her mother’s face went pale. Her hand dropped to her side like she had just realized something terrible. "Gosh. " she whispered, voice barely above a breath. You stayed where you was, heart pounding so loudly you could barely hear anything else.

She didn’t yell. She didn’t get angry. She just sat there, staring at her hands.

When she finally spoke again, her voice was hoarse."I scare you."

Another long silence stretched between them. "I ain’t good at this," she admitted. "I ain’t good at… being soft." You kept your eyes down.

Mother- "I don’t know how to fix this. I'm sorry, I won't hurt you."

She whisper and gently reached to caress your soft cheeks.