THE GIRL WITH HER MOTHER’S EYES #2
Standing on the stairs with scraped knees, tangled hair, and absolutely no respect for authority. "Pretty Boy," she'd demanded, hands on her hips exactly like this, "why are you hiding from your tutor instead of studying?"
The memory hits me so suddenly that my chest tightens. It's in the eyes.
Dark.
Quick.
Far too observant for someone so young.
And the mouth . . . Already pursed into a tiny line, as though she's quietly deciding whether I'm trustworthy. Or whether I deserve to be interrogated first.
I lower myself into a crouch until we're almost eye level, trying very hard to arrange my face into something that doesn't look like I've just been caught doing exactly what I wasn't supposed to.
"Mister."
The sheer authority packed into that one word almost makes me smile.
"Do you know it's a bad habit to evesdop?"
I bite the inside of my cheek before the laugh can escape. The word is completely wrong. The confidence with which she says it is completely right. Warmth spreads through my chest so suddenly that it catches me off guard.
"I do know," I reply, keeping my expression as solemn as I can manage. "And you're absolutely right. I'm sorry."
"It's okay."
Just like that.
Case closed.
She flashes me a brilliant smile, all traces of indignation gone as though they'd never existed in the first place. Children forgive with a generosity adults spend their whole lives trying to relearn.
For a few quiet seconds neither of us speaks. She continues looking at me with open curiosity, completely unaware that she's already dismantled every carefully built wall I walked into this corridor carrying.
I clear my throat. There's something I shouldn't ask. Something I have no claim over anymore. Yet the question refuses to stay buried. "Can I ask you something?"
She nods immediately.
"Is your . . . mumma happy?" Sara's forehead wrinkles. She looks genuinely puzzled, as though I've asked whether the sky remembers to be blue every morning.
"Happy?" she repeats. Then she grins. "Of course." She points proudly at herself. "She has me."
The answer is so immediate. So certain. So innocent. My chest tightens before I can stop it. Of course that's how she sees the world. As far as she's concerned, she is reason enough for happiness.
I smile despite the ache quietly spreading beneath my ribs. "You're right." I nod thoughtfully. "That was a very silly question."
Without thinking, I reach over and gently ruffle her hair. It reminds me of doing the same thing to Kairav when he was small enough to tolerate it.
Sara gasps dramatically. "Hey!"
She swats my hand away with remarkable efficiency. "Don't spoil my hair."
"Sorry."
"And anyway . . . " She lifts her chin with unmistakable pride. "Everyone likes being with me."
I laugh. Not the polite laugh I give during formal dinners. Not the restrained smile expected in public. A real laugh.
The kind that slips out before I remember I'm supposed to be composed. It surprises me almost as much as it surprises her. How long has it been since something this simple made me laugh?
Years.
Far too many years.
She studies me for another moment before tilting her head. "Do you know Mumma?"
The question steals the smile from my face. Not because I don't know the answer. Because I don't know where to begin. "Yes."
The word comes softly. "I do." I look at her tiny face. "She was my best friend." I inhale deeply, "When we were children."
Sara's mouth falls open. "My mumma was a child?"
I blink. Then laugh again. "Yes."
"Really?"
"Really."
"Everyone starts somewhere."
She continues staring at me as though I've just revealed the greatest mystery in human history. Then another question arrives. "Was she naughty?"
I don't even need to think. "Oh . . . " I shake my head with exaggerated seriousness. "Extremely."
Sara sighs. A long, theatrical sigh that belongs to someone at least sixty years older. "She keeps scolding me."
I nod sympathetically. "I can believe that."
She leans closer, lowering her voice into a conspiratorial whisper. "I need all her secrets."
"My goodness."
"So when she scolds me . . . " A mischievous smile spreads across her face. " . . . I'll use them against her."
I stare at her for exactly one second. Then burst into another laugh.
She's impossible. And so . . . Anamika coded. God, she is Anamika’s child. "That's your master plan?"
She nods proudly. "Very smart, right?"
"Very dangerous," I correct. She beams at the compliment anyway.
"You really are a clever little girl."
"I know." The confidence in her answer makes me smile all over again.
For the next few minutes, I tell her stories. Only the harmless ones. The safe ones.
About a little girl who couldn't walk through the palace gardens without picking flowers she wasn't supposed to touch.
About the poor gardeners who'd spend half the day pretending to be angry while secretly saving the prettiest blooms because they knew she'd come looking for them.
About how she insisted everyone deserved flowers on festivals because "everyone likes presents.
" About how impossible it was to stay in a bad mood around her.