A brief interlude.
Norma Bates was not always hard-hearted and cruel, and the last person to ever say she was those things was, of course, her son. She was a reflection on events that happened and a world that did not always agree, and Norman loved her very, very much. There were times when she came to him like an angel, looking ethereal in the light that came in through the parlor window when she read on summer evenings.
When he was younger, Norma took him on picnics, and the wind would ruffle her hair and the sun rays would catch in her eyes, illuminating her face in a magnificent way he could never explain nor never saw in anyone else. Other days, when something went better than she had hoped and sleep began settling in, she played a record and hummed to herself, and when she saw Norman she sang softly to him in a voice he believed belonged in the song. Gently, she'd ruffle his hair and send him off to bed, and all through the night he dreamed of her loveliness in those quiet moments when she didn't have to be harsh in the face of the rest of the world, or in the face of his own incompetence.
In the mornings she had her regular schedule to get ready. It had become considerably simpler ever since she was widowed, but even then, it didn't stop her from shooing him away since she was indecent, but any frustration then would resolve by night when maybe she would kiss his forehead, or more likely scold him playfully.
Age hardened her. His own faults hardened her. It wasn't her own character, Norman decided, it was everyone else's. She was too wonderful to him some days to be bad.
Norman's mother was breathtakingly beautiful, and, most importantly, he was his and only his.