Chapter 4
Elias did not trust chairs.
This was the first thing I learned on Day 11 of motherhood.
He would sit on windowsills, tabletops, stairs—but put him in an actual, cushion-backed chair and he perched like a suspicious cat being shown a bath.
"You know it's not a trap, right?" I said.
He said nothing. Just stared at the chair, then at me, like I was the trap.
Lesson #2:
Do not joke with children who have survival trauma.
I once asked him, while serving soup, "What if this is all just a dream?"
He blinked. "Then I hope I don't wake up."
That one sent me straight to my wine stash.
Lesson #3:
He was five. He did not act five.
When I tried to teach him how to write letters in cursive, he corrected my pen grip and asked why "q" looked like "g's evil twin."
When I suggested a bedtime story, he asked for the history of mana migration post-Barrier War.
When I handed him a stuffed animal as a comfort object, he stared at it like it was a ticking bomb.
By Day 15, I had learned a few things that worked:
Let him observe you first. He won't talk, but he studies everything.
Cook in front of him. He trusts what he sees you taste.
Do not, under any circumstances, lie. Not even "we'll go outside tomorrow" if you're not 100% sure.
Praise his actions, not his "value." He shuts down if you say things like "you're so special." But "you did that well" earns a flicker of pride.
That night, I found him asleep on the floor beside the fireplace, not his bed.
No pillow. No blanket.
I knelt beside him.
"Why the floor?"
"It's warm," he murmured, barely awake.
"You have a blanket."
"This one can't be taken away."
And that right there was the problem.
He never expected anything to last.
So I picked him up—awkwardly, carefully—and carried him to bed.
He didn't resist.
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.
.
.
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End of Chapter 4