Title: A Mother's Love
Rating: PG
Pairings/Characters: Ms. Mikami. Sachiko. child!Mikami. child!Light. child!Sayu.
Warnings: (insert coughhackwheezing here) My first attempt at second-person.
Word Count: 3,119
Author's Note: In which Ms. Mikami feels her life is inadequate when compared to Sachiko's (seemingly) perfect one. Umm…Sachiko isn't really referred to by name here, just because I thought it would more accurately portray Ms. Mikami's bitterness towards her.

You did not want to come to the library today (you were tired from your job, since you had worked straight through your lunch break to complete an accounting statistic for your boss), but your son had managed to persuade you with his incessant (and slightly neurotic) rambling about how he needed to get books for a book report. A part of you wanted to tune out when he got that familiar look of fanatic paranoia in his eyes and went on to say that if he did not pass the fifth grade, it would be impossible for him to attend law school at the fixed age of twenty-one—or was it twenty-two? You had kept your lips pursed lest you let slip that, at the moment, college (let alone law school) was completely out of the question on your salary.

By now you find yourself inside the spacious building filled with—well, what else?—books. The librarian offers you and your son a welcoming smile, and you manage to fake a smile in response. By the way the librarian all but cringes and glances away, you assume that the smile must have betrayed your true feelings of I-would-rather-be-at-home-right-now.

You tell your son to go on and get his books, and he walks away with a perfect stride as he pushes his glasses back onto his nose. You remember that your husband had the same neurotic disposition every time he set off to do something he considered "important," but you push the thought out of your head at the very last second. You were not going to waste another second thinking about that self-absorbed bastard that left you when your boy was just a baby.

So you follow your son to the section for juvenile readers, and upon arrival realize just how much your legs really ache. (It takes you a moment to relate your weariness to the fact that you and your son had walked to the library rather than take your car because you did not want to waste valuable gas.) You refuse to leave your son by himself—child abduction was not on your list of things to deal with this evening—so you take a seat on one of the small chairs around an angular table. You are glad that there is no adult there to witness how thoroughly absurd you look sandwiched between the tiny armrests of an equally tiny chair.

You are comforted by this thought, and since your son is now on the other side of the bookshelf, you watch his feet as they rapidly pace from left to right as he apparently contemplates which book to check out. But as luck would have it (or would not have it, since you did not consider yourself very lucky), you see a woman enter with two children— a boy that looks only a few years younger than your own son, putting the boy at eight, and a little girl that was perhaps four or five. The woman happens to glance in your direction, and you instantly deliberate whether or not to get up so you can save what is left of your dignity. But she offers you a warm smile and the look in her eyes reads So you came here for your child, too? You smile thinly in response and watch as she tells the chestnut-haired little boy (her son, obviously) to get his book. His amber eyes light up and he nods enthusiastically, anxiously whispering that he will try to be as fast as he can. His mother gently tells him to take his time and smiles down at him with a look so wholesome and so…so…motherly that you cannot help but glance away. But from your peripheral you can see the little boy with the red button-down sweater move onto peruse a stack of books that should reach well beyond his reading level. With a heavy heart you come to the conclusion that this woman's son must be some sort of prodigy—a genius.

Your son returns to place a book onto the table in front of you (you are vaguely aware that it has something to do with a lawyer or some aspect of law) before rushing off to get another one. You tell him to hurry up before you can stop yourself, and feel the gaze of the short, brown-haired woman on you. You meet her gaze and she looks almost contrite, like she feels bad that you told your son to hurry up when you have every right to. You do not have all the time in the world like this woman, who is currently offering her pigtailed daughter a rag doll whose pink sundress matches her own.

It occurs to you then that you have seen this woman before somewhere. A few more furtive glances in her direction and you realize that she was on the news a few months ago, alongside her husband who is a member of the Japanese police force—Yagami Soichiro, you recall reluctantly. Yagami had apparently apprehended some burglar who had managed to thwart the officials for the past five months, and for that he and his wife were interviewed on the local news. You find the whole premise absurd—by going on television, weren't they just endangering their own lives?—but a voice in the back of your head tells you that you're just jealous. You silence it immediately.

And even though you do not want to, you watch on as the woman's daughter becomes fussy and points out the window, obviously trying to tell her mother that she wants to go outside. But her mother only coos and kisses her on the forehead. Softly murmurs that her big brother needs to find a book. Promises her ice cream if she behaves. This is enough to pacify the little girl and she slips off her mother's lap and begins walking around aimlessly while fiddling with one of her pigtails.

You are surprised at this woman's tenderness. When your son used to become fussy, it was near impossible for you to quiet him down without raising your voice. But now here this woman is able to soothe her daughter with soft-spoken promises of treats. You begin fiddling with your wedding band anxiously (you're still wearing it and you're not exactly sure why), and then you feel a slight tug on your white blouse. You turn to see the pigtailed girl staring at you with a wholly innocent expression of wonder in her eyes—as if this is the first time she's ever seen an adult woman, besides her mother. You might have found this terribly cute if the little girl wasn't trying to rip your blouse with her tiny little hands.

"No, sweetie," you mutter with what you hope is a kind smile, although on the inside you are smoldering. "You're going to rip my shirt. Go back to your mommy."

But she continues to stare at you with a vacant expression, and you crane your neck to see if this girl's mother is paying even the slightest bit of attention. You find yourself more irked than you should be when you see the woman going through her duffle bag, blissfully unaware that her daughter is naively harassing a grown woman.

"Excuse me,"—it takes extra effort to keep from hissing—"but can you please get your little girl?"

The woman glances up from her duffle bag and sets a sippy cup full of some clear liquid (water, maybe) onto the table. She gasps and instantly hops to her feet. Rushes over to scoop the little girl back into her arms. Her daughter whines feebly and kicks around a bit. She begins apologizing at once while simultaneously trying to calm her daughter down. You smile (thin-lipped, again) and mutter that it was nothing, while at the same time you are mentally seething and wondering how this woman can be scatterbrained enough to let her little daughter run amok while she looks for a sippy cup.

"Please excuse my little girl," she apologizes for the umpteenth time, balancing her daughter back onto her lap and offering her the sippy cup. "She's a tad rambunctious…"

You know for certain that if this woman really was sorry, she would be scolding her daughter instead of brushing the hair away from her heart-shaped face and placing a kiss on her plump little cheek. So you turn away, nostrils flaring as you focus again on your son, who is carefully examining the interior cover of a book. You wonder if he is reading the summary, or if he is gauging how dirty it is on the inside.

"Mama, I wanna get ice cweam," the little girl mumbles, clutching at her tiny stomach with two little hands.

You glance back in the direction of the mother and child, waiting for her reaction. You are both surprised and irritated when the woman responds with a soft, "We'll get ice cream as soon as your big brother chooses a book, honey." Her daughter huffs a bit before picking up her sippy cup and taking another sip as she kicks her legs restlessly.

Just how much patience does this woman have, you wonder exasperatedly. To you it seems like this woman's sole reason for existence is to please and pamper her children; you confidently assume that this woman is a housewife by her overbearing maternal attitude, and you cannot even begin to imagine yourself in her place. You find the idea of living such a life thoroughly ridiculous, infuriating, wasteful…

…and yet that little voice in your head tells you that you're jealous again, and this time you cannot silence it. You realize with a hollow feeling in your chest that you loathe this woman for having everything that you do not have: a real home, two perfect children, a loving husband… Your mental critiques of this woman were really just futile attempts at trying to make yourself seem better than her, when in actuality you were denying the obvious: that this woman has the perfect life.

You are shaken out of your reverie when your son lightly taps you on the shoulder and tells you that he is ready. You peer across the table at the woman and see that her son has returned also, clutching a book that any ordinary eight-year-old would find immensely difficult to read. You take your son by the arm and nearly sprint off towards the check-out desk. Your son asks you why you're in such a rush, and you lie and say that dinner is getting late, when in reality you are just trying to beat that perfect woman at something, anything—even if it is something as simple as checking out a library book.

Behind you the little boy is animatedly telling his mother about what his book is about, and you halfheartedly wish that your son was just as enthusiastic about things like that. You know that you love your boy, but sometimes that isn't enough to keep you from wishing that he wasn't so difficult, or overanxious, or…

You leave the thought unfinished as you reach the check-out desk because not only are you unsure on how to finish it, but you feel like a horrible mother for even considering such a terrible thing. That woman behind you would probably never be callous enough to wish her children were different—

"Mom?"

You glance down at your son and vaguely recall him asking for his library card. You unzip your purse and venture to find it amidst the wrappers and receipts that lay inside, unable to keep from wondering if her duffle bag is as messy as yours. But after a bit of hasty rummaging, you find the taupe library card and set it in front of the librarian with more force than is necessary. You hear your son mutter something along the lines of, "I told you that you need to organize your purse," under his breath, and it takes all your self-possession to keep your suddenly short-circuited temper at bay. It does not help when, behind you, you hear that woman ask her children what flavor ice cream they want.

You stalk away as soon as the librarian tells you when the books are due, aware that the only way your son can possibly keep up is if he runs (and he doesn't because that would be breaking the rules, and you know that your son wants to be perfect). But in spite of your blind fury, you have enough sense to wait for him once you reach the door. He looks at you questioningly, and you can tell what he's trying to ask you with his eyes: Mom, what's wrong with you?

You do not have the patience or restraint to deal with him, so you feign obliviousness. Open the door. Step outside. Surrender to the sudden gust of wind that causes your hair to fly in front of your face. Your son sneezes, and while you know that you should be concerned for his health, your main concern is how you can possibly afford more allergy medicine.

"Come along, Teru," you say, your tone forcibly subdued as you grasp his hand and veer off to the right. "We need to get home so I can—"

But you do not finish your sentence, because at that precise moment she interrupts you by placing a halting hand against your shoulder. You stiffen instantly, unused to such sudden contact, and whirl around more fiercely than you probably should have. She blinks and takes an instinctive step back, and you relax your shoulders and take a deep breath, simply asking: "Yes?"

"Oh, well…" she fumbles for her words, and you are inconspicuously happy to make this woman feel even the least bit flustered, "…my little boy…"—for some reason, you find her use of the term little boy rather than her son's given name pretentious—"…found a library card on the floor. I think you must have dropped it."

Her son takes a confident step towards you and pulls out a library card from his sweater pocket. He hands it to you and smiles politely, and you are just as charmed by this child as you are envious of his mother. You look at the back of the taupe card, and sure enough you see your son's name written in his painstakingly flawless script.

"Thank you, dear," you say in what you think is a pleasant voice. You hesitate for a moment before reaching out to lightly pat the boy's head of shining hair. He sticks his chest out proudly and grins from ear-to-ear, and tells you that his name is Light. You thank him again (for his benefit, of course), this time tagging his real name at the end instead of using an obligatory term of endearment.

Your son manages to thank them with a bow, and then he sneezes again. You use this as the perfect excuse to mutter a hasty goodbye and say that you should be running along. The woman nods with genuine understanding, and you hate her for being so thoughtful. When her daughter whines for ice cream again, she picks her up and expertly balances the little girl onto her hip. She grabs her son's hand with her free hand warmly, and they turn and proceed in the other direction—presumably towards their car (which you think is a minivan, because that would fit this picturesque scene quite well).

"Let's go, Teru," you mutter, impatiently grabbing at your son's hand for a second time. You take a step in the opposite direction, but he does not budge. You repeat his name—with more force, this time—and still he refuses to move. Your temper flares again and you turn towards him with purpose, only to find him staring at the mother and children with a faraway look on his face—looking wistful, as if it is taking all of his self-will just to keep from running after them and demanding to go with them.

You feel numb, like someone has just reached into your chest and ripped your heart out and stepped on it until the remnants are stuck to the soles of their shoes. This thought is enough to cause you to raise a trembling hand and place it against your chest, just so you can be sure that your heart really is there.

It hits you then, like a dart hits a bull's eye, that you will never be as devoted a mother as that woman is. You will never be able to have enough patience to tell your child to take his time, or enough sympathy to coo and fawn over him when he is being difficult, or enough devotion to help him any way that you can. If you are lucky, you will be able to give him the most basic of basics—a roof over his head, food, clothes… A mother's love, you realize, is impossible coming from someone as bitter and proud as you.

Now you feel wretched for having wished that your son was different, when his OCD tendencies could very well be your fault because you did not give him the life that he deserved. You cannot keep using the fact that your husband left you as a safety crutch—as a justification for all your problems—because that's just it: these problems are yours. So you begin deliberating how life would have been if your boy had been born into a better, more supportive family…a family like the Yagamis, you decide, and with a mother like Yagami Soichiro's wife: loving, patient, faithful…perfect…

"Mother? Can we go now?"

Your son is looking at you now, and you pretend that you do not hear the detachment in his voice; you ignore the sinking feeling in your stomach and the stupid voice in your head that's telling you he's addressing you as mother only for the sake of conventionality.

You take his hand again, and this time you notice that it feels cold and sweaty and unwilling—like he doesn't want to touch you, like he doesn't want anything to do with his mother. You begin walking again, neglecting even so much as a glance behind you because it would be too painful. Your son wordlessly trudges alongside you, and you open your mouth to apologize…

"Teru," is as far as you get before falling silent.

…but for what? For being a terrible mother? For not giving him the life he deserves?

He does not say anything, does not even prompt you with a, "What is it?" and you find it better this way because you know deep down in that black pit you call a heart that apologizing simply wouldn't be enough.