Three Sentence Ficathon

There is always a more difficult parent, Ram supposes. Father is indisputably the easiest—always predisposed to consideration, to thoughtful conversation, to offering a guiding hand. Mother, on the other hand…

Ram struggles, sometimes.

“It is not good to be so quick to anger,” Father tells him soothingly, finding him sullen and sulking after yet another disagreement. “Try to understand your mother; she does not want you roaming too far when you are this young. There will be time for that later.”

“But I am nearly twelve! And I am Prince!” Ram complains—and he does not understand until a long time later the somber look in his father’s eyes.

It takes him many more years to fully understand his mother, too: why she fears the thought of young men marching off away from family to fight, why she balks at giving him too much power while he is still too young, why she mistrusts the older lords and is not afraid to openly question them, why she clutches him so closely to her and struggles to let go.

“Do not be ashamed of being a child, my son,” she murmurs against his hair that night, when he finally takes his father’s advice and lets her put him to bed with a story and a kiss. “It is a privilege afforded to too few, and you will be a greater man because of it.”