Some days, Sokka felt guilty that he could scarcely remember his mother.
He hadn't even been that young when she'd died, but Katara had done more than a decent job of filling her shoes. She was the one who kept their home from falling apart, made sure he and their father ate well and kept their parkas zipped to the top, cared for them when they were sick or hurt.
Today was one of the days he felt the most guilty.
"Katara," he said, "you realize what today is?"
She looked up from the vegetables she was chopping and nodded sadly.
"Mom's birthday."
"I didn't even remember until just now. I just thought Dad was in a bad mood for no reason all morning," Sokka sighed. "Half the time I don't even remember what she looked like or how her voice sounded, and now this...I feel like such a lousy son."
"Don't say that!" Katara abandoned the knife and the chopping block to sit down beside her brother on the pile of furs. "Sokka, we were both so young when Mom died, it's only natural that you don't remember."
"You remember her, though." Sokka felt the heat of tears in the back of his eyes. "Even when I do remember her, her face turns into yours. How sad is that? The only mother I ever knew was my little sister."
Sokka cried when a fish he was trying to catch got away, moaned in disappointment when Dad wouldn't let him go on big hunting trips with the other men. But Katara had never seen him this sad before.
"It's not your fault," she said gently, throwing her arms around him and resting her cheek against his shoulder. "The only reason I remember her so well is because I was there when..."
He nodded, returning her embrace, hands settling on her back.
"Yeah, I know."
After a moment of silence, he got an idea.
"Say, Katara, why don't you tell me some stuff about Mom? Like, what was her favorite color, what was she like when she was mad, something funny she said."
She smiled, pulling the topmost fur around the two of them, and the stories began.