Her first few memories were of love. As soon as light hit her face, she was held in her mother’s arms. She had milk and a merciful touch across her body.
Later, she woke up in a room that was apart from everything. She looked up, the only direction her head was facing, and saw monsters, flying things that made no effort, and she had no power to get away. Someone had fenced her in when she wasn’t looking, and she screamed. Her mother came running that first time. She had milk and comfort.
Subsequently, Farah cried again, and she found that each time she raised her voice, her mother was by her side. The pauses were longer, and she felt less and less love, but her mother was always in reach.
Until once, her father came, and he did not have the same comfort. She kept screaming until her mother joined him, but she didn’t stay. Her mother came and screamed too, and she could not provide her mother with comfort or milk or any of the good things.
Farah was suddenly embarrassed that she had caused her mother such distress. The next time her diaper filled, she felt the sensation and decided it wasn’t so bad, not so bad as an upset mother. And crying did nothing on its own. She was hungry, but that discomfort was not so bad as the anger she had seen in her source, so she waited. Her mother would feed her, change her, clothe her, at a more convenient time.
Farah waited. Her mother came eventually. She picked up her daughter and hugged her tightly, and set her back in the cradle. Farah went to sleep. Her mother was happy, and that made her happy.