AN: I don't own Star Wars, as you know. Not really sure where this idea came from – it just popped into my head and I've got a thing for angst. Oh, there are brief descriptions of breasts in this story, but I don't think it's enough to warrant an M rating.

"Mother's Lament"

By EsmeAmelia

Ever since we lost our son, I've hated bathing.

I used to love it. To get away from the galaxy's troubles for an hour or so and relax in the hot water was once heavenly. When Ben was little, sometimes he wanted to get in the tub with me and we'd both sit in warm water and fruity-scented bubble bath while he told me about his day and his bath toys floated in the suds.

That was before everything changed.

Now when I bathe, I look down at my breasts. They sag and wrinkle now as would be expected from my middle age, but that's not why I stare at them. I stare because I remember how my baby would drink from them, his pudgy little cheeks puffing out. Han would often make some joke about how he wished he could drink from my breast too before tickling our baby's toes and gushing about how cute he was and how much Daddy loved him.

In some of the more superstitious parts of the galaxy, people believe that mental disorders and the like are the result of tainted breast milk. Of course, I never believed those stories. Beliefs like that resulted from a lack of proper education.

Still, when I look at my breasts and remember how Ben drank from them . . .

There's a dark blotch of a birthmark on my right breast. Han used to kiss me there and say it made my breasts even sexier, but maybe the superstitious ones would call it a sign that my milk was tainted and would poison my child's mind.

Of course that's ridiculous.

But what if it was true?

I rub my hand over the birthmark as if that would erase it, but of course that does nothing. The ugly mark can't be wiped away any more than the past can.

Han's probably drinking now. He thinks I don't notice how much he drinks since we lost Ben. Like I could miss it. He may not remember his babbling about how Ben's fall was his fault the next morning, but I certainly do.

It wasn't his fault, though. It was mine.

I always knew Ben was closer to Han than he was to me. Han was the one Ben ran to when he came home from a rough day at school; Han was the one Ben usually wanted to play with; Han was the one Ben drew the most comfort from. For years I tried to convince myself that it was just a natural bonding with the same-sex parent, but no, I can't fool myself any longer.

I put my duties to the galaxy above my duties to my son.

All my time as a senator, all those late nights and early mornings, all the times when Ben needed me and I was too busy to give him attention. Why did I ever think a trade dispute between two planets or a demand for lower taxation was more important than my own child?

There's a low rumbling coming from somewhere outside the refresher. I focus my hearing in that direction and I can make out that it's Han . . . singing. Not just singing, but singing one of the lullabies we used to sing to Ben. Now I know he has to be drunk, but even while drunk he still manages to be on-key. He always insisted he wasn't a good singer, but Ben would prove otherwise when he asked his father to sing for him.

How many nights would we sing him that lullaby in the middle of the night when he had a nightmare?

I should have done more about his chronic nightmares. Maybe therapy would have helped . . . or maybe it would have made things worse.

Maybe if I had let Luke train me more in the Force . . .

The thought makes my stomach flip. Luke tried to train me, but when I let the Force overtake me, I lost myself in rage all over again. Rage about Alderaan, my adopted parents, my heritage, and I told Luke that I couldn't trust myself with the Force.

Would I have been Snoke's apprentice if I had finished my training?

Han's still singing, still on-key, though he's slurring some notes. When I come out of the bath he'll probably be babbling about how our son's fall was his fault – if he's not passed out on the table.

Of course, Ben's probably not the only reason he's drinking.

There's also Luke. If he's awake when I come out of the bath, Han will probably babble about how Luke's disappearance was also his fault because he blamed Luke for Ben's fall.

And there's me . . .

He would never blame me for all this even when drunk, but he has every reason to.

The mother who wasn't there for her child . . .

He doesn't want me to even mention the Resistance I'm forming against the First Order. Every time I bring it up, he accuses me of wanting to kill Ben, no matter how much I insist that's not the case. Several times I've offered him a general's position in the Resistance, but he wants no part in it, not even when I point out that we're working for the good of the entire galaxy.

All he sees is that serving the galaxy might mean the death of our only child.

Doesn't he see that fighting against Ben breaks my heart too?

I sink my ears under the water in an attempt to block out that song. We won't have to kill Ben. Our son is still there, buried inside Kylo Ren. We will reach him . . . somehow.

If only Han were willing to work with me.

Han never wanted Ben to train as a Jedi in the first place. Ben needed his parents, Han said, and he did not need to be sent away to a distant planet to be trained in the Jedi arts.

Maybe he was right, but then again I remember the difficulty Ben had in controlling his powers: how he would maybe-accidentally, maybe-on-purpose shove things with the Force when he was angry at school, which led to a general belief that he threatened other students. What else were we supposed to do when he seemed unable to control his powers on his own?

But what were accidental bursts of Force energy compared to what happened to him later?

My eyes close and I see my boy in my mind, giggling as Han bounces him on his shoulder, both giving nearly-identical grins. The fantasy lingers for a moment, maybe two, but my eyes have to open to the faded white refresher ceiling. As I raise my head out of the water, I realize that Han's not singing anymore. Maybe he's fallen into a drunken sleep and is now dreaming of happier days. If so, I envy him, though I know that he'll have to wake up to reality just like how I had to open my eyes.

There are my breasts again, sagging in the water. I run my fingertip over the nipple that once fed my baby. Tainted milk, the superstitious ones would say. The child's problems are the mother's fault.

The mother's fault.

I may not believe in superstitions, but there's one thing they're right about.

It was my fault.

THE END