He was her son. At some point she had cradled him, breastfed him, nursed him when he was sick (and he had been sick so often), kissed him goodnight, kissed away the pain, and now… He isn't her son anymore. He's an adult. He's not hers. So he says. He still stays with mother dearest. He still returns to her. He still clings to her skirts.

He still cries in her arms.

Well, Dante must admit, it was sixteen years ago, but that means nothing when you are centuries old. He is still her little boy, somehow. In his eyes he is still her son, just like he is still his father.

To Dante he is a tool. He isn't even human. She smiles and plays the part of mother, holding him close, whispering soothing words, encouraging words, stroking his back and kissing his forehead whenever Envy wants her to, needs her to.

Perhaps that is why Envy gives Sloth such foul looks when he spots her doing the same with Wrath. Maybe he can see the similarities, see the pretence. Maybe he'll kill her like he killed the last Lust.

Maybe Dante will scold him afterwards, maybe she won't.