Couldn’t cry, that was what girls did. Couldn’t run to his Mother and crawl in to her lap, letting her embrace soothe his despair, that was weak. For babies.
But oh how he wanted to do both. To be held, to cry his eyes out. He’d have to be really stupid (and brave) to give Father that much ammunition, though. Might have been worth it in this case, if only--
If only the drunk whore he used to call his Mother hadn’t been the one to run Flopsy over.
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A/N: ... I hope it isn't so vague that you don't know who's POV this is from ...