Your father died in the war a few months before you were born, his silver hair and fair skin was all that your mother remembered. She saw him in you. The way you looked at her, how your hair looked, and how your eyes looked. She loved you dearly despite her random outbursts she throws at her guards and you.

You’re sitting on her lap as she coddled at you, the gigantic picture of your father in the back of your mother. She laid her finger down your swayed swoop and looked behind at the picture. Multiple memories rush through her and she looks back down at you on her lap. She feels as if she can’t hold herself together as she looks at you lovingly.

“That’s your father, your handsome looking father. You look so much like him.”