On her good days, Uchiha Mikoto liked to think of her eldest son Itachi as a prodigy. Bad days were when he came home soaked in blood that was not his own, would never be his own. Then she thought of him as a demon, with no soul, no remorse, and no love for the woman who had raised him since birth.
Although he didn't need her past the age of four, she liked being the main female influence in his life. Even his cold remarks at so young an age were never enough to loosen the tight grip he held over her heart. Sometimes she imagined that she loved him more than her husband.
As Itachi grew, he progressed, like all prodigies do. He grew stronger, smarter, and was always steps ahead of those around him. Mikoto was never sure how to accept the fact that her son was the one who was looked to to defend the clan, rather than herself or his father.
She'd felt, as every new mother did, pleased when he had come home fresh from the academy on his first day with a cut on his left elbow that needed bandaging. It was very rare when she would be able to take care of him, and usually went all out, even though it was just so he would sit with her a moment longer.
He would always sigh at her, and leave without thanks or acknowledgment, off to train more, leaving her alone with angry thoughts. But the love she held for her first-born always won out over any bad or cruel thoughts about him.
Perhaps she had made a mistake along the way.
Maybe, she shouldn't have allowed him to advance so quickly through the ranks of the shinobi. Maybe if he had progressed even a tad bit slower, at a more average speed, things wouldn't have turned out the way they did. Maybe she could have slowed him down, somehow.
Maybe if she had insisted upon more family meals, because she'd heard that if a family ate together more often than the children would be positively affected.
Or if she had made Itachi spend more time with Sasuke, their relationship could have developed into a more promising one. One that neither brother could live without, and would grow to depend on and cherish. She'd always toyed with the image of her two sons playing at a park together, while she looked on with the pride that only a mother who had two co-operating children could feel.
Instead, both she and Sasuke were left in the cold while Itachi went with his team and his kunai and other weapons, all ready to kill and immune to the affects that death may wreak. Instead, Sasuke and Mikoto would shuffle about the kitchen, in an awkward silence, for she had always payed less attention to him than she did to Itachi. Likewise for Sasuke. They'd had an uneasy relationship, one that she grew to regret. Perhaps that had been her mistake.
If Sasuke and Itachi were treated equally, then maybe they could have played the part of the stereotypical family, with friendly feuds at the dinner table and flicks of soap thrown at each other while they did the dishes together. Mikoto realized with a pang in her heart that she had always hopefully wished for soap bubbles on her nose. It was a shame she had never felt them. She looked forward to that.
In any case, Itachi held a vice-like grip over his mother's heart, and he knew it. His eyes told her so, as they reflected the pool of blood already going cold, that had spilt from her husband. Maybe that was why she did not fight it when the cold steel plunged into her stomach, or she fell and he took aim at her heart.
As he drove the katana through her heart, she wished that he could maybe sever the tight grip he held over it, her fair weather organ, and she could, for once in his life, hate him. Of course she couldn't. So she let the blood flow from her, and allowed herself to listen to ugly words from his mouth that flowed like the red river. And still she did not hate him.
Maybe, somewhere along the way, she made a mistake.