"My son is finally growing up," she murmured, her voice filled with something rare—genuine relief.
Damien stiffened.
It was… embarrassing.
The sudden warmth, the closeness, the unmistakable affection—he could practically feel Dominic's unimpressed stare and Owen's silent judgment burning into his back.
And yet—
He didn't pull away.
Because, if he was being honest…
A part of him had missed this.
His mother's warmth.
The old Damien had never truly been close to her.
She hadn't visited him much—not when he was wasting away in self-indulgence, not when he was spiraling into irrelevance, not when he had become a disappointment even to himself.
And back when he had been bedridden? When his body had been at its weakest?
She had come… but not often.
Not enough.
Not like this.
He had always assumed it was because she was disappointed in him.
And maybe, she had been.
But now?
Now, as her arms tightened around him, he could tell—she had been waiting for this.
