It was hard to call her a mother. She didn’t act like it, not anymore. Not ever, really. Never when it counted.

As an infant, you could only figure she’d been present enough, at least to keep you alive and nourished. As a toddler, a nanny had taken over more or less all parental responsibilities. She fed you and clothed you and disciplined with an iron fist. There was never any love in your upbringing, not from those who had the job of raising you, at least. Sometimes, very rarely, would you get to wander around on a slow day of resource exchange; sometimes a General or some worker would coo at you briefly.

In childhood and beyond, your studies continued, you’d learned to live as a Galra official instead of as a kid. Zarkon, it was easy to dismiss him as a parent–you’d never expected his love. But there was something different about Honerva, Haggar, Zarkon’s wife and right hand mage. She was your mother. It might’ve been instinct, but you craved her praise, you needed her attention. At the very least, you wanted recognition in the form of a job, a title, something she couldn’t deny and may even appoint herself.

But it was never her, it was Dayak, your governess. Education and discipline never ceased. The only true fun or freedom you had was the clearances that came with royal status, access to most all rooms on any ship or base, not having to memorize very many ways to respectfully address the ranks.

“You are old enough to help.”

Honerva sat across from you, hunched over, you couldn’t tell if she was looking at you or not, her hair covered the yellowness of her eyes. It was one of the few times you’d been close to her, in a cramped little ship, making the final stretch down to a planet’s surface for a meeting and material exchange.

“Don’t be lazy. You’ve always been lazy.”