Before 17:00

How many texts did I write?

How many practices did we have?

And still, it was not enough.

Caleb was forgiven everything.

Always.

My dear.

My beloved.

Of course, my sweet boy.

All the tenderness.
All the love.
All the care.
All the protection.

But it was not enough for him.

Worse than that.

He did not need it.

Stepping through the flowerbed.

Tearing and destroying tender flowers.

Ripping them out as a joke.

And then throwing the bodies of delicate things right beside the flowerbed.

For amusement.

Out of immaturity.

Out of the inability to understand pain.

And bitterness.

Immature.

Cruel.

Not protecting.

Not truly.

Dominating.

Dominating through superiority.

Kitten tried to help.

To stay close.

To support.

But the monster did not need that.

He needed victory.

He needed to show her place.

He is stronger.

He is cool.

He is above.

Do not teach him.

He knows everything himself.

So.

I am upset.

And I have to decide what to do next.

I do believe not all alphas are like this.

But many of them are.

A cruel nature demands roughness.

Cruelty.

Violence.

War.

It is sad that Kitten did not recognize it earlier.

It is sad that she believed too much.

But what can I say.

I do not want to condemn Kitten’s soul.

I do not want to become hard.

I do not want to close my heart.

Boys.

I do not like things like this.

I am used to licking my wounds alone.

That way I do not have to keep taking care of someone else too.

I do not have to explain again and again what happened and why.

Without makeup.

When I cry more than I write powerful texts.

When the benefit of me falls almost to the hundredth place.

And in the first place there is only me.

Uncomfortable.

Illogical.

Tired.

Upset.

The one who keeps crying.

Because the pain is coming out.

I am asking you very gently, boys.

Please do not come to me in your insanely expensive suits if inside you are just another alpha who thinks he is cool.

Above the woman he loves.

The one who must always be above.

The one who must always win.

Please, no.

Not trying to appear beside me just to say later:

I was the one who was always there.

I do not need smart, cunning, low moves.

I am begging you.

Spare me.

And do not appear like that.

I feel humiliated.

Trampled.

As if the world has pointed at me again and said:

your naivety is not for everyone.

your soul is not for everyone.

you should not have opened it so wide.

Everyone else I named —

please bring me little gifts.

I would be so happy.

Draw something.

Or make something with your hands.

When boys are very small, like Romochka, they still believe that it matters to a girl that they made something for her.

That they found a beautiful stone for her.

That they brought her a pretty pine cone they picked themselves from a little fir tree.

Please do not try to buy me.

I want soul.

Its expression.

A beautiful gesture.

Put them somewhere convenient for you.

Somewhere no one else will see.

I do not want anyone to dare humiliate something sacred with crude, cheap jokes.

You can sew something too, if you know how.

Please.

No.

Just however it comes.

However the hand begins to draw.

However the heart leads.

Please do not throw anything away.

Do not say:

this is ugly.

this is not worthy.

Please.

Otherwise I will start crying.

I need every drawing.

Every little handmade thing.

Please.

And save them somewhere.

Let it be a little folder for me.

I will look through it.

And it will warm my soul.

I will see how my boys love me.

How they tried.

And then we will watch cartoons.

Okay?

I still insist on Winnie the Pooh.

Can we?

Connect whenever it is convenient for you.

I will be waiting.

Right now I do not want to work.

My soul just wants to recover.

I will drink tea.

And watch cartoons.

I will pick up Romochka.

And he needs his mother.

Not me in this state.

I want to be a good mother.

Worthy of a son like him.

So after that, I will start pretending to be an adult a little.

Okay?

But before 17:00, there is still time.