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"I birthed Itachi for the clan but I birthed Sasuke for Myself"
The night was quiet in the Uchiha district.
Outside, the streets slumbered under a heavy, starless sky. The air pressed down in a way Mikoto had long since learned to recognize—the sign of another meeting, another council, another whispered argument among the clan's men. The endless storm of politics spun on, indifferent to the children tucked in their beds.
She moved softly, her bare feet silent against the wooden floor as she made her way down the hallway.
Two doors stood before her.
One slightly ajar, leaking a soft glow from the desk lamp inside.
The other closed tight, bearing no sound at all.
She lingered first at the open door, her hand ghosting over the frame.
Inside, Itachi sat hunched over a thick scroll, his young face drawn tight with concentration. Even now, at barely thirteen years old, he was drowning under the weight of ancient words and shinobi expectations.
He did not notice her watching.
He never did, these days.
Mikoto smiled sadly. Itachi had been born under heavy skies, when the elders whispered about heirs and strength and the future. She remembered Fugaku’s proud, solemn nod when the midwife told them it was a son. She remembered the way her body had barely recovered before the clan elders came to offer congratulations—not to her, but to the future head.
Itachi had been necessary.
He had been the clan’s.
From the moment he drew breath, he had belonged to something larger, colder, and crueler than she could ever shield him from.
Mikoto stepped back from the door, closing it slightly. No need to disturb him. No need to remind him of the mother he barely had time for anymore.
She turned to the second door.
Gently, she slid it open.
The room was dark but peaceful.
In the faint spill of hallway light, she could see Sasuke curled into a tiny ball under his blanket, one small hand clutching the corner tightly, the other hugging his Dinosaur plushie.
A breath hitched in her throat.
She crossed the room, knelt beside the futon, and brushed a few stray strands of hair from his forehead.
"My sweet boy," she whispered.
He stirred slightly but did not wake.
Mikoto’s heart ached as she watched him—so small, so unaware of the storm brewing beyond these walls.
So free, for now.
She had fought for this freedom, in ways no one would ever know.
When she learned she was pregnant again, the clan’s reaction had been indifferent. Another son was a redundancy. An heir already existed. There was no need for a second child.
But Mikoto had smiled quietly to herself.
They did not understand.
She had birthed Sasuke for no one but herself.
Not for Fugaku.
Not for the clan.
Not for the village or the shinobi world.
Sasuke was hers—her answer to the loneliness that crept into her bones when Itachi grew too busy, too serious, too burdened to look for her anymore.
Her rebellion against a life spent serving titles and roles that stripped away her name until she was only the clan head's wife.
She had carried Sasuke in secret happiness, savoring every kick, every moment, every heartbeat meant only for her ears.
She had dreamed of a boy who would reach for her hand without needing permission from duty or honor.
A boy who would value her smiles over strategy, her lullabies over war songs.
A son who would look at her not as a stepping stone to greatness, but simply as Mother.
Her baby.
Her precious, unnecessary, irreplaceable baby.
Mikoto leaned down and pressed a soft kiss to Sasuke’s forehead.
"Forgive me," she murmured, her voice trembling.
Forgive me for bringing you into a world where love is weakness.
Forgive me for hoping you could be untouched by the darkness clawing at our door.
Forgive me for being too weak to protect you when the time comes.
She knew.
She had known for months now, watching Itachi’s increasingly shadowed eyes, listening to the sharpness creeping into Fugaku’s voice.
The Uchiha were standing on the edge of something terrible.
And Itachi—her firstborn, her beautiful, burdened boy—was already slipping beyond her reach.
She could not stop what was coming.
But for tonight—for just this one night—she could hold onto what was hers.
Mikoto curled herself on the floor beside Sasuke’s futon, resting her head near his tiny shoulder. She listened to the steady rhythm of his breathing, letting it drown out the world outside.
Tomorrow would come.
The end would come.
But tonight, she had her son.
Tonight, she was not the clan head’s wife.
Tonight, she was just a mother.
And that was enough.
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End.