Now, listen closely, because I’m only going to say this once:
One does not stop being a mother.
Ever.
Your children may die, they may vanish, they may move on to lives where they never need nor see you again—but you never stop being their mother.
You may wish with all your heart to revoke the rights and so-called privileges of motherhood. You may wish them dead or wish them to love you more than they are capable of doing.
You may wish to love them less, to wrap your heart up safely from them, from not only their cruelties and their kindnesses but from the sweet, milky memories of them that cannot be lost no matter how you might try or no matter how often you turn their tattered photos over and over in your mind.
Do you comprehend what I am saying to you? No matter who I become, no matter what lands I traverse or who I might meet or how rarely I speak with my goddamn son—I will always be the mother that bore those children. That identity will always remain within me, even if sometimes it is the smallest part of who I am.
And in regards to Lestat:
The love I bear for him need not be repeated here, as I have addressed it.
The pain we cause each other need not be repeated here, as I have addressed it.
The total devotion I have for him need not be repeated here, as those who might read have no right to do so.
And the intricacies of our bond are ours. And they contain within them every label we’ve ever held between us, every touch we’ve ever shared, and every memory we’ve crafted—from the moment he began to move within my womb to the last night I visited with him in New Orleans this past summer.
He is my son.
I am his mother.
And within those titles live worlds of who we are to each other.
I-want-my-IWTV 