No.
There was only anger.
She looked at the hole in her pants, grabbed the feather duster, walked up to her in a few strides, roughly took off her pants, and beat her mercilessly without reason.
"You're ten years old, still so naughty, pants torn, what nonsense is this? Watch me beat you to death."
The injury on her knee felt like it was connected to a heart, hurting even more.
She cried and explained, begged her mom not to hit her, and told her it was because she was bullied by an upperclassman.
But her mom got angrier: "You're still arguing?! It must be you were misbehaving at school, showing off, that's why you got hit, pants torn, need a new pair, you're a burden, see if I don't beat you to death!"
No tenderness, only blame and beating, let alone consolation, for her, that was a delusion.
There were servants in the house.
Mom never considered it one bit.
She was ten, no longer the baby urinating everywhere, already a girl with a sense of shame.
