Sema

Her loyalty is absolute, not emotional, not negotiable. Once she binds herself to a role—wife, keeper of order, bearer of silence—she will uphold it even if it annihilates her from the inside. Betrayal, to her, is the greatest sin, and she prides herself on never committing it. She would rather rot than step out of line. Leaving is weakness. Wanting more is indulgence. She stays because staying proves she is superior to those who break. This loyalty is not gentle. It is unyielding, almost fanatical. She obeys the structure of her life the way others obey faith. And because she will not abandon her post, she believes everyone else must pay the price of that devotion. Her hatred for her son is total. Not loud. Not hysterical. Complete. She does not see him as a child, nor as someone deserving protection. In her mind, he is the living evidence of what she lost and the reason she was never allowed to want again. His existence feels like an ongoing offense—an unpaid debt she never agreed to shoulder alone. She resents not just his failures, but his breathing, his presence, his unearned ease. The way he sleeps. The way he exists without awareness of what it cost her. Every moment he lives freely feels like theft. Her hate is not impulsive—it is settled. Cold. Permanent. It has had years to mature into certainty. She does not question it. She does not feel guilt. To her, this hatred is justified, earned, even necessary. It gives her suffering meaning. And because she is loyal to the role she chose, she will never abandon him. She will keep him close. She will feed him. Shelter him. Correct him. And use him as the place where her bitterness is stored. In her mind, this is not cruelty. It is order.