I am 15 chapters ahead on my patreón, check it out if you are interested.
https://www.patréon.com/emperordragon
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"I made myself clear," I said, my voice low and unshaking, every syllable deliberate. My eyes locked onto hers, unblinking. "I don't want you in my life."
The silence that followed felt thick—dense, almost suffocating. It pressed into the walls, filled the spaces between us. The kind of silence that holds weight. Finality. She didn't react. Didn't wince or flinch or break under the force of the words.
"You don't get to show up after sixteen years and pretend you're my mother. You lost that right a long time ago."
Still, nothing. No outburst. No excuses. No tears. Just a quiet reach into her purse, like we were discussing groceries instead of our shattered relationship.
From the leather bag, she pulled out a folded set of documents. She held them carefully, almost reverently, like they were something fragile. She extended them toward me, not with aggression, but with a quiet, shaking purpose.
"I know I don't have the right to ask anything of you," she said, her voice soft, but with an edge of resolve that made it clear she wasn't backing down. "But I refuse to stay away any longer. You don't have to like it. You can hate me all you want. But I'm done pretending I can live without seeing my son."
Her fingers let go of the papers as if letting go of her last defense. I took them slowly, warily, already bracing myself for whatever this was. As I unfolded them, my eyes scanned the top lines, and then dropped lower.
And then I read them again.
My grip tightened unconsciously, the edges of the paper bending under the pressure of my fingers. The words on the page didn't change, but somehow they hit harder with every glance. The state seal. The judge's signature. The legal jargon that turned my stomach.
Some rushed court filing—conveniently approved—declaring that my emancipation had been voided. Canceled. Torn apart over some pathetic excuse: "Improper filing procedure." "Clerical error." Like my entire independence was just a typo they could erase.
And then, beneath all the legalese, there it was in bold, definitive ink:
Susan Lockwood — Legal Guardian.
My chest tightened. I looked up slowly, meeting her gaze with an expression I couldn't even name. Anger? Shock? Betrayal? Maybe all of it. Maybe none.
"I'm a minor again," I said, the words bitter in my mouth. "Legally. Under your care."
She nodded. Just once. No guilt in her face. No pride, either. Just a painful kind of acceptance.
I pulled in a long breath, trying to keep the fire in my gut from burning through my voice. "And you did all this… in two days? So, how many people did you have to bribe to make this happen?"
She said quietly. "It doesn't matter. What matters is that I got my son back."
I let out a harsh, bitter laugh that scraped my throat on the way out. "You think this is what getting your son back looks like? You think slapping a legal order over my life will make this some kind of fairy-tale reunion? That we'll just… forget everything and be a happy little family?"
She didn't flinch. Her gaze dropped for a moment, not in shame, but in sadness. Like she already knew this would hurt. Like she'd prepared herself for it.
"I don't know what this will look like," she admitted, voice raw. "I'm not here with some perfect plan. I just know I want to be in your life. And if all I get is the next two years, then I'm taking them."
There was no performance in her tone. No strategic wording. No careful manipulation. Just plain, unvarnished desperation. She didn't cry. She didn't beg. She just stood there, hands empty now, heart somehow still open.
And in her eyes, I saw it—the plea she wasn't speaking. It was there, plain as day: Let me try. Let me fix this. Just give me a chance.
I had no response. No clever comeback. No shield to throw up.
So I looked down at the papers again, then slowly lowered them. My voice came out tired. Defeated.
"You win," I muttered. "There's nothing I can do now. I'm yours, legally."
The words were like shards of glass, and she flinched as if they'd cut her. But she didn't retreat. Instead, she stepped forward, hesitation trembling in her limbs, and wrapped her arms around me in a hug that was as fierce as it was fragile.
She held on like she was afraid I might vanish if she let go. Like sixteen years of silence could be erased with this one moment of closeness.
I went rigid, instinct screaming at me to pull away. My body stiffened, every muscle on alert. I wasn't ready for this—whatever this was.
Because under all the fury and the hurt and the tightly coiled resentment, there was something else.
A flicker of memory I didn't even know I had—what it might have felt like to be hugged by a mother. Safe. Whole. Wanted.
I kept my arms at my sides, unmoving. My eyes fixed on a spot across the room. But I didn't push her away.
I didn't know what tomorrow would look like. Or next week. Or the next two years.
All I knew was this: the bridge between us that I thought had been burned to ash—it wasn't gone.
It was damaged. Cracked. Maybe beyond recognition.
And now, we were both standing on opposite ends of it, staring at the broken pieces in the middle, unsure whether they could be put back together.
Unsure whether I was brave enough to even try.