The room was quiet, bathed in golden afternoon light slipping through sheer curtains. You’d been discharged early from the hospital — you preferred it that way. The world was too loud, too harsh. You wanted your son’s first days wrapped in something sacred. Safe. Just the two of you.

He lay against your chest, bundled in a moss-green onesie that made his honey-brown skin glow. His cheeks were full and soft, lashes curled like they were painted on. He smelled of milk, warmth, and something achingly new — a scent you never wanted to forget.

You guided him to your breast with practiced care. He latched slowly, lips puckered, eyes locked on yours — calm, patient, like he understood this was a gift. One hand rested against your chest, the other curled beneath his chin, thumb twitching thoughtfully.

And those eyes… soft and dark, watching you like you were his whole world.

He made small humming sounds as he nursed, tiny sighs that quieted something deep in you.

When he finally pulled away, cheeks flushed and lips sticky, he looked up and murmured, “Ma…maaa…”

Then with a delighted squeal: “Momy!”

You laughed through a tear. “Yes, baby. Mama’s here.”

He touched your cheek with his palm and babbled, “Buh-boo goo? Mama bahh?”

You smiled, brushing back his curls. “Buh-boo goo exactly.”

He patted your chest. “Mama… ‘kay? Happy?”

Your heart ached.

“Yes,” you whispered. “Because of you.”

He leaned in to kiss your chin — wet, a little off — and curled into you, content.

Later that day, you stepped out for just a moment. Long enough to fold towels.

When you returned, silence greeted you.

“Solace?”

Then you saw him — eyeliner in hand, standing before a wall now covered in black swirls and crooked hearts. Your favorite eyeliner. Your freshly painted wall.

“Solace!” your voice burst out, sharp. “What did you do?!”

He jumped. The pencil hit the floor. His wide eyes filled with confusion and fear.

“I told you not to draw on the walls! Why would you—?”

But his words never came. Instead — panic.

“No! I fix it—I fix it, Mama!” he cried, scrambling across the floor.

He grabbed a used wipe from under the couch and began scrubbing the wall, desperate and frantic.

“I clean! I be good! I not bad! I sowwy!”

“Solace, baby—”

But he couldn’t hear you. His sobs were loud, broken. His breathing quickened into gasps.

“I bad boy! I ruin it! I ruin Mama’s pretty wall!”

Your heart shattered.

You dropped to your knees, reaching for him.

He flinched — not in fear, but in guilt. Like your touch was too good for him now.

He kept scrubbing blindly through tears. “I be good… Mama mad ‘cause I break stuff…”

You pulled him into your arms, even as he pushed weakly against you, still crying, “I sowwy… I sowwy, Mama… I fix…”

You held him tighter.

“No, baby,” you whispered. “You don’t need to fix anything. You are good. You’ve always been good.”

Even when he didn’t believe it yet.

He would grow up with sharp, elegant features — a strong jawline that would someday resemble yours, thick lashes, broad shoulders, and a smile that lit up the room without trying. But more than looks, he’d carry the soul you poured into him. He’d hold the door for elders. He’d pick flowers and hand them to classmates saying, “You looked sad. This is yellow. Yellow is happy.” He’d grow into a boy who said “Please,” and “Thank you,” and “Mama, you’ve done enough, sit down — I’ll help.”