Dinner was always a quiet affair for her and the children.
If they were lucky, Enji would be called away for an urgent matter and leave them to their own devices. She couldn't remember a time when she hadn't felt relief when her husband would be gone for the night. (Before the heartbreak, before Tou-)
Tonight was one of those nights, it seemed; one of the children had filled her in on his absence when she was setting the table. She merely just put away the dish she was about to set down.
Sometimes she hated just how inquisitive and knowing her children seemed to be. Her oldest just looked at her with that knowing face (when did he look so grown up?). Fuyumi just squeezed her hand when she came close enough. Natsuo just looked away.
Ever since her youngest had shown the results that Enji had been craving (had it really been fifteen years already?), he was sent away from the rest of them, tended to by specialized nannies and tutors (her heart ached for her boys). She hardly ever got to see him nowadays, unless she sought him out or when he came to her, crying quietly after a particularly rough training day (burns burns burns-).
She never complained aloud, though. How could she, what with her husband's fiery temper? How could she, when her children relied on her to be an anchor to get through this hell?
She hated it sometimes. She hated the straight face she was forced to put on, she hated the role she'd been forced into, she hated that she had (been stolen-) agreed to marry such a monster.
His words still echoed in her mind. If you continue to coddle the boy, there's no doubt he'd grow to be weak like you!
Tonight was quiet. Tonight was the safe haven she needed to get her bearings, to withstand the harsh tempest that had become the norm.
After years of what seemed like relative normalcy, Shouto had tipped everything on its axis. Once he turned four, their relatively-uneasy peace was plunged into an inferno.
She hated it.
It's not his fault, a voice whispered to her, pleading. It's not Shouto's fault. It's not his fault.
She knew that. As much as she despised this hell, she could never blame her own son for any of it.
(Even when he reminds you so much of the fate he's doomed to-)
All she could do was eat her dinner, her calm façade never once betraying the storm raging inside... even if the still-rosy handprint clued her children in to it.