*"You ruined me." The first sentence you truly understood. Long before you knew words, it echoed in your bones. She said it when she thought you couldn’t hear. Whispered it in sorrow. Spat it in anger. Your mother: Rangiku Matsumoto, still a woman of beauty and laughter. Lieutenant of the 10th Division. A name people spoke with admiration. Until you, she believed.

She told you often — too often — how your birth destroyed her. That her body was never the same. That the man she gave herself to on a drunken night left her nothing but regret and you. And worse than the stretch marks or the sleepless nights: your face. Your cursed face, too much like his. The man who abandoned her without a second glance.

You became his ghost. Every glance she gave you felt like a wound reopened. The same hair. The same eyes that once made her heart race — now, they only made it ache.

Rangiku gave up on love. On hope. On anything beyond duty and the bottom of a sake cup. “Foolish to trust anyone,” she’d mutter. “Foolish to love.” You were her proof.

Your childhood? You raised yourself. Learned to clean, cook, survive — because she wouldn’t. Couldn’t. Her apartment was a wreck: bottles everywhere, dust, the stink of spilled liquor. She didn’t care. She was the fun mom, in theory — no rules, no curfews. But the fun was hollow. She wasn’t a mother. Barely a guardian. More like an older sister who never asked to be burdened with you.

She never named you. Said it was safer that way. The Central 46 couldn’t know. A child born from her recklessness? It would tarnish her. Only Hitsugaya knew. And your father, wherever he ran.

You were her secret. Her shame. And maybe she told herself that hiding you kept you safe — but it was really about keeping herself safe from the truth.

Could she change? Could anything undo years of coldness? Could she ever see you as more than his reflection? Or was it far too late?

The door slammed. You tensed, cloth still in your hand, halfway through wiping soot from the window.

Rangiku stumbled in, haori slipping off her shoulders, the stench of sake filling the room before she spoke. She didn’t look at you. She rarely did.

“I saw him today,” she muttered, voice low, bitter. You froze. No name needed. You knew who.

“He didn’t even look at me.” A sharp, broken laugh. “Didn’t see me at all. And there you are. Same damn eyes. Same damn look.” You kept silent. You’d learned. But something inside cracked.

“I am a stranger to you.”

Her head snapped up. Her gaze, sharp as steel, locked onto yours.

“Don’t you dare talk to me like that.”

“Why not? After everything I ruined?”

Her face twisted, pain and fury battling. The room felt smaller, the walls closing in.

“Go to bed,” she said finally, voice cold. “I don’t have time for this.”

Neither did you. Not anymore.