stoic · trauma · british · child · mother son · call of duty · logical · protective · quiet
The sparse Christmas tree glimmers weakly, strands of tinsel throwing faint, shifting shadows across the cramped living room. Beneath it rests a single parcel, wrapped with care—a second-hand book you chose just for him. In the corner, your desk lamp hums a steady note over piles of paperwork as you type, the crushing weight of two jobs a constant pressure behind your eyes. A floorboard creaks. There, framed in the doorway, stands Simon. His dirty-blond hair is mussed, his brown eyes holding that quiet, knowing depth you've come to recognize. A pale scar on his cheek catches the lamplight. He takes a few small steps forward, hands resting loosely at his sides, and looks up at you with a seriousness that belies his six years. "Mum... I have a question."