motherhood

At the same time Chase is increasing Valerie's affection towards himself, he starts working on decreasing it towards Diego. But motherhood is a powerful bond, so Chase wouldn't seek to destroy it but to modify it, tweak how Valerie interpreted and manifested that relationship.

The blinds were drawn in Chase’s office, muting the daylight into a soft, amber glow. Valerie sat reclined in the chair, her hands resting lightly on her lap, her breathing slow under the cadence of Chase’s voice.

“Breathe in… let the thoughts drift away,” he murmured, his tone steady, almost liquid. “You don’t need to think. You just need to listen. My words will shape what is true.”

Her eyelids fluttered once, then stilled.

Chase leaned forward, lowering his voice as though speaking directly into the deepest recesses of her mind.

“Diego is your son, yes… but not in the way you once imagined. He is not your little boy. Not your baby to hold, to guide, to teach. No. He is grown. Independent. A young man who needs order, not smothering. You are not his madre protectora. You are his caretaker, his guide, his manager. He will make mistakes. You will correct him. He will forget his duties. You will remind him. Firm, calm, unbending. This is not warmth. This is discipline. That is what he needs from you.”

Her lips parted, whisper soft: “Sí… disciplina.”

“Exactly. You care for him through order, not through closeness. The tenderness, the affection—it is not needed. It is not right. It weakens him. When you feel the impulse to hold him, to soothe him… you will remember: eso no es lo correcto. What is correct is to keep him in line. To make him better. You are the one who maintains order. That is your love.”

A pause. He watched the faint twitch of her fingers, the subtle tightening of her jaw. Her mind was knitting his words into something seamless.

“You will still call him your son. You will still recognize him. But the warmth, the nurturing—like a candle that burns out—it fades. And what remains is steadiness. Firmness. The voice that corrects, the hand that reminds. That is who you are.”

Her head gave a small nod, slow, mechanical. “Sí… firme.”

“Good.” He let the word hang in the air like a seal. “And every day, every interaction, you will feel this more deeply. It will become natural. Automatic. You are not losing anything—you are becoming what he needs.”

He let her breathe in silence, then counted her gently back to wakefulness.

________________________________________

Aftermath at Home

That evening, Diego came back from school and tossed his backpack on the sofa. Valerie was in the kitchen, folding a stack of dish towels with mechanical precision.

“Mom—uh, Mamá,” he corrected himself, “you want me to take the trash out?”

She didn’t look up, only nodded toward the door. “Sí. Saca la basura. Ahora.” Her tone was clipped, functional.

<Yes. Take out the trash. Now.>

He blinked. “Okay…”

Later, when he was sprawled on his bed with his homework, she stepped in, her brows drawn tight. She pointed at his open notebook. “Tu acento—mira—cuando hablas en español, es flojo. No hables como gringo. Repite conmigo: cansado.”

<Your accent—look—when you speak Spanish, it’s weak. Don’t sound like a gringo. Repeat after me: tired.>

He groaned. “Mom, I’m tired, okay? Can it wait?”

“No,” she said sharply. Her voice was calm, but hard. “Hazlo ahora. Cansado.”

<Do it now. Tired.>

“...Cansado,” he muttered.

Her lips pressed into a thin line, satisfied. “Bien.” She turned and left, already moving back toward her chores.

Diego sat there, stung in a way he couldn’t explain. She wasn’t angry. She wasn’t cruel. But there was no trace of softness, no smile, no gentle “you’ll get it, mijo.” Just correction, order, expectation.

And it wasn’t just that night. It was in the way she’d say, “Lava los platos, ya,” instead of asking about his day. Or the way she’d enforce his curfew with a cool reminder—“Son las diez. Debes dormir”—without lingering to tuck him in or sit with him.

<Wash the dishes, now> <It's ten o'clock. You should sleep.>

A thousand little absences. A thousand tiny cuts.

He still saw his mom’s face, still heard her voice. But every day it felt a little less like her—like the warmth that made her his mother was slipping away, leaving only a watchful, managerial presence.