Of Wit and War.

A heavy silence hung over the chambers where Cecelia Sol Montemayor-Xu lay ensconced, her body cocooned in warmth, yet her spirit adrift in unfamiliar waters. The sitting the month tradition dictated rest, nourishment, and recovery—a period in which a mother and her newborn were to bond, sheltered from the encroachments of the outside world. The Montemayor women moved in measured steps, their whispers soft yet firm, their hands experienced in tending to the fragile boundary between childbirth and the spectral hand of mortality.

The air within the room was dense with the cloying scent of medicinal herbs—mugwort, ginseng, and motherwort steeping in porcelain bowls, their potent aroma mingling with the faint metallic trace of lingering blood. Cecelia's limbs ached, the aftershocks of labor still rippling through her, but no physical pain compared to the chasm yawning within her chest.

She turned her gaze downward to the sleeping infant beside her. The child's breath was slow, rhythmic, untroubled. Her tiny fingers curled into the folds of the silk blankets, her dark lashes fluttering slightly in the depths of sleep. So delicate. So perfect. And yet... Cecelia felt nothing.

There was no surge of maternal adoration, no overwhelming instinct to cradle the child closer. It was as if an invisible barrier had been erected between them, an impermeable wall of glass that rendered her a mere spectator rather than a mother.

And the guilt—it sank into her like poison.

She should love this child. She should.

Instead, she found herself watching the infant with a detached curiosity, as if expecting something—some divine revelation, some latent flicker of warmth—to seize her heart and make her feel what she was supposed to feel.

"She is beautiful," one of the elder midwives murmured as she approached, laying a warm, wrinkled hand over Cecelia's wrist. "You must drink this, señora. It will restore your strength."

Cecelia took the ceramic cup, feeling the heat of the tonic seep into her palms. She drank mechanically, her mind a maelstrom of thoughts, her heart a cold and distant thing.

The Matriarch of the Montemayor household observed her from across the room, her knowing eyes narrowing ever so slightly. "You are troubled," she stated rather than asked.

Cecelia hesitated. How could she possibly put this into words? How could she confess this terrifying truth?

That she did not know how to love her child?

Instead, she simply murmured, "I am tired."

The Matriarch regarded her for a moment longer before speaking again, her voice softer than expected. "The heart is slow to follow where the body has led. Do not be afraid of your hesitation."

Cecelia swallowed, but the unease remained, coiling tighter around her ribs.

---

Across the estate, seated at a heavy mahogany writing desk, Mùchén Xu pressed the tip of his calligraphy brush against parchment, carefully forming each stroke of the characters before him. He had spent the last hour staring at the blank page, knowing that the words he chose would dictate the course of his daughter's future.

He could not afford carelessness.

The letter, addressed to his father, required a precision of language that balanced deference with quiet defiance.

Honored Father,

It is with great reverence that I write to you, bearing news of both joy and solemnity. My wife, Cecelia Montemayor-Xu, has given birth to our firstborn—a daughter, who now carries the name [Name] Sol Montemayor-Xu.

The birth was arduous, and Cecelia's health was at great risk. Yet, through perseverance and the devoted care of the Montemayor midwives, she has survived. I know well the expectations placed upon me, and I will not feign ignorance to your disappointment that this child is not a son.

However, I must assert that she is of our blood, and thus, she is worthy of her lineage.

I realize I have acted rashly in naming her so soon—tradition dictates that a name be chosen with meticulous care, over months or even years, to bestow upon the child a name that reflects their destiny. I must confess, in the moment of her birth, I was overcome by an instinct I did not fully understand. I named her Sol, for the warmth and light she brought amidst my fear of losing my wife. It was an error in haste, but not one I regret.

My wife's family has extended their support to ensure both mother and child recover by tradition. They will see to Cecelia's convalescence for the next six months, a practice akin to our own.

In time, I hope you will come to accept Sol as my heir. A child, regardless of gender, carries within them the potential to uphold the family name, to bring honor through means beyond mere expectation. I ask for your patience and your wisdom in considering this.

With filial devotion,
Xu Mùchén

He set down the brush, exhaling as he read over the words. It was neither pleading nor overtly defiant—it was calculated, a negotiation embedded within formality.

Sealing the letter, he summoned a courier and dispatched it to China, uncertain of what reply he would receive.

---

It did not take long.

When the letter arrived, Mùchén read the words with a heavy heart. His father's response was as sharp as the winter winds of Beijing, its coldness masked by an elegance of phrasing that left no room for misinterpretation.

Xu Mùchén,

We acknowledge receipt of your letter. Your duty to inform us of the birth is duly noted.

Regrettably, you allowed emotion to dictate your actions so rashly. A name is not merely a collection of sounds—it is a foundation upon which destiny is built. To bestow such a weighty title without careful deliberation is a folly unbecoming of my son.

That said, what is done is done. The child shall bear the name you have given, though whether it will serve her well remains to be seen.

You are correct in assuming our disappointment, though we will not dwell on it. The child, though female, still carries our name and, thus, shall be raised accordingly. We expect her arrival within the year.

She will be educated in the manner befitting our house, where she will be instructed in the principles of virtue, discipline, and filial responsibility. While we are certain the Montemayors will attempt to shape her to their inclinations, she must understand where her true heritage lies.

Cecelia Montemayor has fulfilled her duty in delivering a child, and we trust she will be encouraged to produce a second—a son, as is proper.

We shall expect further correspondence on this matter.

Xu Wenhua

Mùchén clenched the parchment so tightly his knuckles turned white.

His father's response lay in his hands, yet the weight of it bore down on his very soul. The words, meticulously chosen and elegantly phrased, left no room for interpretation. There was no warmth, no inquiry after Cecelia's well-being, no acknowledgment of the life she had nearly lost in bringing their daughter into the world.

They had not asked how Cecelia was faring.
They had not asked about the pain she endured nor about the child's well-being.

They had merely claimed her.

A storm brewed within him, dark and unrelenting. They would not take his daughter—not when she was still cradled in Cecelia's arms, not when she had yet to take her first steps. He would not let her be whisked away to a place where love was measured in obedience, where she would be a duty rather than a cherished soul.

With slow, deliberate movements, he folded the letter and set it aside. His heart pounded, his breath uneven as he stood.

He had to tell Cecelia.

---

The birthing chamber was still cloaked in the dim glow of flickering oil lamps, their golden light casting shifting shadows upon the silk-draped walls. Cecelia lay beneath layers of thick blankets, her body fragile but recovering, her skin still marked by the exhaustion of labor. The scent of herbs lingered in the air—protective, restorative, but unable to soothe the turmoil within her.

She turned her head slightly as Mùchén entered. He was quiet, his expression unreadable. But Cecelia knew him well enough to sense the unease radiating from his form.

"Did they reply?" she asked, though she already knew the answer.

Mùchén hesitated before sitting at her bedside. He took a steadying breath, then reached for her hand, entwining his fingers with hers. How could he soften this? How could he tell her that the Xu family had already laid claim to their daughter, disregarding both Cecelia's suffering and his fears?

"They acknowledge the birth," he began, choosing his words carefully. "And... they expect us to send her to China within the year."

Cecelia's breath hitched.

A cold dread seeped into her bones, tightening her grip on his hand. "They want to take her away?"

Mùchén nodded. "They said she must be raised properly, educated in our traditions. They..." His voice faltered as he forced himself to repeat the cold declaration. "They accept her begrudgingly."

Cecelia exhaled sharply, a bitter, humorless laugh escaping her lips. "Begrudgingly," she echoed, voice hollow. "They would have welcomed her had she been a boy."

Mùchén did not answer. The silence between them spoke louder than words ever could.

She turned her head away, staring at the bundled infant beside her. The child's small chest rose and fell with each peaceful breath, unaware of the forces already working to decide her future.

"I should be furious," Cecelia whispered. "I should want to fight them, to defy them with every ounce of my being."

Mùchén studied her carefully. "But?"

A tremor ran through her body, and then—suddenly, the dam broke.

Cecelia let out a sob, one hand pressing against her lips as though to stifle the sound. Tears spilled down her cheeks, shaking her frail frame. "But I don't even know if I love her."

Mùchén's eyes widened. "Cecelia..."

She shook her head rapidly as if ashamed of the words that had escaped her lips, but now that they had been spoken, there was no turning back. She had to say it.

"I want to. I want to love her so badly," she admitted between gasping breaths, "but I don't feel it, Mùchén. I look at her, and I feel... nothing. No warmth, no connection—just fear."

Mùchén's heart ached at the sight of her unraveling before him. He reached for her, pulling her against his chest, holding her as she wept into his shoulder. He had seen Cecelia at her strongest—fearless, unyielding, and capable of standing against the expectations of both their families. But now, she was fragile, raw, lost in an emotion that terrified her more than anything else.

"I thought it would come naturally," she sobbed. "That the moment I held her, I would feel it. That all these stories about mothers and their overwhelming love for their children would become my reality. But I'm—" She choked on her own words. "I'm a failure."

"No," Mùchén whispered fiercely, pressing a kiss to the top of her head. "No, Cecelia, you are not."

"I don't even know if I should keep her near me," she admitted in a broken whisper. "What if I—what if I can't protect her? What if my doubts make me a danger to her?"

A soft rustling came from the doorway.

Cecelia barely registered the Matriarch stepping inside, her presence an unspoken authority within the chamber. Her gaze, wise and unwavering, settled upon the young mother with an understanding that only years of experience could grant.

"I see now," the Matriarch murmured, her voice as steady as the earth beneath them. She stepped forward, her aged hands resting atop Cecelia's trembling fingers. "You fear yourself more than anything."

Cecelia swallowed, nodding, her tears still falling.

The Matriarch studied her for a moment before asking, "Tell me, child—do you feel the need to protect her from yourself?"

"Yes," Cecelia whispered, the admission nearly breaking her. "I do."

"And why is that?"

Cecelia inhaled shakily. "Because I don't trust myself. Because I don't feel what I should be feeling. Because I—" She clenched her jaw. "Because she deserves better than a mother who hesitates."

The Matriarch exhaled slowly, her grip tightening just slightly. Then, in a voice as calm as the sea before a storm, she said, "That is love."

Cecelia blinked through her tears, stunned. "What?"

The Matriarch smiled faintly. "Not the kind you expected, perhaps. Not the kind you have heard stories about. But love takes many forms, my dear. Some mothers are enraptured the moment they hold their child. Others," she gestured toward Cecelia, "are gripped by fear—not because they do not love, but because they love so much that they question their ability to be enough."

Cecelia stared at the older woman, her breath caught in her throat.

"You are not failing her," the Matriarch continued. "You are protecting her in the only way you know how. The bond will come in its own time. For now, you must allow yourself the grace to grow into motherhood. It is not something that happens in an instant."

The weight of those words settled deep within Cecelia's heart. For the first time since the birth, she felt as though she could breathe.

Mùchén pressed a lingering kiss to her temple. "You are not alone in this," he murmured. "Not now. Not ever."

A silence stretched between them, but it was no longer oppressive. Instead, it was filled with something fragile yet promising—understanding.

The Matriarch gave a small nod before turning to leave. Just before stepping beyond the threshold, she added, "The most dangerous mothers are not the ones who doubt their love. They are the ones who never question it at all."

And with that, she was gone, leaving Cecelia with those parting words echoing in her mind.

She looked down at the child beside her. [Name]. Their little Sol, her Sol.

She was still afraid. Still uncertain. But, for the first time, she reached out, running her fingers lightly over the baby's tiny hand.

The child stirred, shifting slightly in her swaddle, her little fingers instinctively curling around Cecelia's own.

It was such a small thing.

But perhaps, it was a start.