Help! I Became A Guy In A BL Novel!-Chapter 323: She Loved Me, Right?

The tiny one-room home reeked of smoke and sour milk. A dented pot sat over the fire, its contents charred black. Five-year-old Soren stood beside it, clutching a wooden spoon that was too big for his small hands.

He was hungry, his mother was tired, he thought... He thought he could be helpful. But by the time he could fetch some water from the well outside, the oats were burnt.

"I just wanted to make it ready before you came back..." he mumbled, staring at the floor.

His mother stood in the doorway, face twisted with fury. Her clothes were wet from the river, her knuckles raw from scrubbing laundry. She dropped the basket with a thud and stormed toward the pot.

"You ruined it," she hissed. "That was the last of the oats, Soren!"

"I’m sorry," he whimpered, stepping back.

But she was already reaching for the spoon in his hand. She yanked it away and struck him on the side of his hand. Not hard enough to break bone, but enough to sting, to frighten.

"I don’t need another useless man in my life," she spat. "Just like your father. Always making messes and leaving someone else to clean it up."

Soren bit his lip, trying not to cry. He didn’t know his father, but every time his mother looked at him, he saw that man’s ghost in her eyes—and it made her hate him more.

Soren saw a mother chasing her son, but she had a smile on her face, like they were playing a game. He turned his head away and focused on the path back to his home.

Soren sat on the floor, playing with a broken shard of mirror. He liked the way it caught the light, made rainbows on the wall. He turned it, watching his own reflection twist and shimmer.

"Look," he said softly, "it’s like magic..."

His mother, hunched over a threadbare blanket she was trying to patch, looked up at him. Her eyes narrowed.

"Put that down," she snapped.

"I didn’t break it, Mama. It was already like this."

"I said put it down!" she barked, rising suddenly.

He flinched and dropped the shard. It hit the floor with a sharp clink.

"Always touching things that don’t belong to you," she muttered, walking over and picking it up. She looked at the mirror, then at him. Her mouth curled into something cruel.

"You think you’re pretty, don’t you? With that face? That same smug face your father had."

Soren blinked at her, confused. "Is... Is he pretty?"

She slapped the side of his head—not hard, but not gentle either.

"Don’t smile like that. Don’t you ever smile at me like that again."

That night, Soren quietly avoided the cracked mirror and refused to look at his reflection in the bucket of water she left out.

Soren let go of his clenched fists as he remembered that. He was over it, he told himself. He was stronger, colder, he would not get hurt as easily as before. Only cowards prey on people weaker than themselves.

Thunder cracked outside as rain pelted the roof. The wind had blown open the shutter again, and cold air crept in through the gaps in the wall. Soren curled up on the floor under a thin blanket, shivering.

His stomach growled, but he didn’t dare say anything. His mother sat in the corner, drinking something bitter from a chipped cup, her eyes red and distant.

"Mama?" he whispered.

She didn’t look at him.

"I had a bad dream," he said. "You were gone. I was all alone."

"Maybe you should get used to that," she muttered.

He sat up slowly, heart thudding. "You... you don’t mean that."

She finally turned to face him. Her face was hollow, exhausted, angry.

"I mean exactly that. You think I wanted this life? You think I asked to be stuck raising some man’s bastard while he ran off with all my savings?"

Soren’s lip trembled.

"I’m sorry," he whispered.

She laughed, sharp and bitter. "You’re always sorry. Doesn’t change anything."

It’s okay... She is just drinking some bad things, I’m lucky. She did not beat me this time, whenever she drinks that she hits me... I am lucky.

He crawled back under the blanket, hugging his knees. His mother didn’t speak again that night. When he eventually fell asleep, he dreamed of a faceless man with a kind voice—someone he imagined must be his father. He clung to that voice, because it was the only gentle one he’d ever heard.

Soren had scratched a little mark into the wall. One, two, three... Six little notches.

Today was his birthday. Or at least, the day he remembered being told it was.

He had saved half a piece of dry bread under his mattress. It was stale and crumbly, but he thought maybe he could share it with Mama. Maybe she would smile today.

"Mama," he said, holding it out with both hands, "Happy me-day."

She frowned. "What?"

"It’s my birthday," he said softly. "I saved this for us."

She stared at him, and for a moment, her expression faltered. But then she scoffed and turned away.

"Nothing good ever came of this day," she muttered. "Just eat that damn thing yourself, leave me alone." For her, he was nothing but a reminder of her ruined life.

His fingers curled around the dry crust.

He sat alone in the corner and ate it without saying anything more.

He didn’t remember what "happy" was supposed to feel like anymore.

He knew what an orphanage was, he knew it was for children without parents. And he was grateful, he was lucky... Wasn’t he? He had a mom...

She loved him, right? Otherwise, she would’ve gotten rid of him. She loved him, but things were tough, that was why she was mad at him. If things got better she would love him.

She loved him. That was why she did not send him away, she loved him. That was why she kept him close.