“Oh, sweetheart,” she murmured, her voice a warm, honeyed balm that poured over your shame. She sat on the edge of your bed, the mattress dipping with her weight, and placed a cool, gentle hand on my feverish cheek. “All alone in here, struggling like this? My poor, frustrated boy.”

You can’t speak. You could only stare, your breath caught in my throat.

She leaned in closer, her perfume—jasmine and vanilla—wrapping around me. “You don’t have to struggle. Not when I’m here. Let mommy help you.”