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I was conceived in summer and born in winter, a concentrated centre for my parents' opposing natures. Like all children I was to some degree a blend of those who gave me breathe, with features a mix of his and hers both borrowed and all my own. I was given affection by my father and intellect my mother, as May of conception and January of birth; and in that duality I learned the silent, often unseen dance of marriage.
Daddy was the one I was closest to when I was small, still tiny and weightless enough to be lifted with ease. Perhaps it was the Electra skein that first absorbed me, the natural reaction of daughter to unconsciously adopt her father as her first love when she is a toddler; perhaps it was simply a response to the warmth I was given from him that Mother found difficult to lend. I do know I loved him dearly, and was jealous of the completeness of his love for Mother, a deep-running current I could not tap into.
Knowing Mother when I was a child, I puzzled, at times, on how or what Daddy saw to love in her. She was an efficient mother, yes, and I had all the meals and lectures and moral lessons a small girl is entitled to learn; but it was strange for me to see other children hugging their mothers and boasting on what stories those glorious, soft-smiled women read at night to my companions. These were things Daddy did: hugging and carefully watching over me, reading Western fairy tales and earthy Eastern legends.
It was not until I was nearly seven that I first realized Mother loved me in her own quiet way; with the slow maturity and epiphanies of preadolescence I became aware of the silent kindness in her touch. Small things sprang out, little details as her eyes followed Daddy just a bit, how her hand was always near mine though she did not touch, as if ready to spring to catch me. I recognized each of these miniscule actions and flickers, anchoring them inside for fear of that which I had met once before.
When I was young, and jealous of Mother, and loving of Daddy, I nearly lost my mother. Uncle Manta – who was not my real uncle, but earned the title by right of honor – would often say, later, as I began to notice my mother, "Yoh almost had Anna's ghost following him around; who'd want her haunting you?" And though I didn't understand why Daddy laughed and Mother scowled, I knew, deeply, that Uncle Manta was wrong:
Daddy would never have lost her, but I? I was almost alone.
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Continuity: Future-set fic, world is still around, happy-happy-freakin'-joy-joy, and so forth.
Disclaimer: I own nothing but the fic and the narrator/Asakura daughter. Yay!