The reason Vanitas treates Kafka like a baby probably stemmed from the guilt she carried.
Ever since the day she had abandoned Kafka as a baby, that single moment had left an irreparable mark on Vanitas's heart. She had never been able to forgive herself for it, and after being reunited with him—it was as if all those years of suppressed maternal instinct and remorse exploded at once.
Because she never had the chance to raise him as a child—she began making up for it now, except, instead of treating Kafka like the grown man he was, she started treating him like the baby she never got to hold.
And it never stopped.
If anyone asked Kafka what a typical day with Vanitas was like, he could probably write an entire guidebook titled "How to Survive Being a Grown Man with an Overly Affectionate Mother."
Every morning, for example, before he could even make it to the coffee machine, Vanitas would pounce.
Like clockwork, she'd appear behind him, squeal his name at the top of her lungs, and wrap him in a bear hug that defied divine logic.
"Good morning, my precious baby boy!" She'd sing before showering him with kisses all over his face.
And no amount of protesting helped. The more he wriggled, the tighter she held him.
By the time he finally broke free, he usually looked like he had survived a hurricane of affection, his hair tousled, his shirt wrinkled, and his pride severely damaged.
Breakfast wasn't any better. If Kafka so much as picked up a fork, Vanitas would gasp dramatically and snatch it away.
"No, no, no, let Mommy feed you properly! You'll stab your cheek if you're not careful!"
And before he could argue, she'd already be spooning food into his mouth, making happy humming noises like she was feeding a toddler.
It didn't stop there, oh, no. If a single crumb dared cling to his lip, she'd wipe it away with a napkin and follow it with a kiss.
If his cup of water was even half-empty, she'd tilt it toward his lips like he couldn't manage hydration on his own.
Kafka had long since given up trying to fight it at the dining table. It was a battle lost years ago.
Then came the other moments throughout the day that somehow made it worse.
Like the time she decided Kafka clearly couldn't be trusted to dress himself properly.
He'd barely stepped out of the shower, towel around his waist—when Vanitas appeared holding up two sets of clothes.
"Now, which one should Mommy help you put on today?" She'd said brightly, as if he were five.
He practically had to wrestle his own shirt from her grip while she tutted about him not having any fashion sense.
Or the morning she followed him into the bathroom because she was "worried he'd slip on the tiles."
She stood outside the shower curtain, humming and asking every thirty seconds,
"Are you all right, sweetheart? Do you need Mommy to wash your back?"
Kafka nearly tripped out of sheer embarrassment.
Then there was the "sun hat incident."
One afternoon, Kafka mentioned it was hot outside.
Big mistake.
Within minutes, Vanitas had reappeared with a massive floppy sunhat and a tube of sunscreen.
"We can't let your precious skin get burned!"
She'd insisted, slathering him with lotion while he groaned and tried to escape, even though he realistically couldn't get sunburned. He smelled like coconut for days.
The night was also not any better.
Once, she barged into his room at night because she thought he was having a nightmare...except he was just snoring.
She woke him up, stroked his hair, and rocked him until she fell asleep on his chest instead. He didn't have the heart to move her, so he just sighed and stared at the ceiling until morning.
Another night, Vanitas found him reading a book before bed.
Instead of letting him relax, she grabbed the book and said, "No, no, no, Mommy will read to you."
She then began narrating a children's story with voices and sound effects.
When Kafka tried to stop her, she pouted and said. "Shh, the dragon hasn't even shown up yet!"
But the most absurd moment of all, the one Kafka would never forget, happened one fateful afternoon.
He'd been minding his own business when Vanitas had appeared in the doorway, smiling brightly and holding something behind her back. He should have known that smile was dangerous.
"Kafka~" She sang in that dangerously sweet tone. "I bought something special today."
"What is it?" He asked warily.
When she revealed what she was holding, his blood ran cold.
A pack of diapers.
"Mom." He said, voice flat. "Please tell me those are not what I think they are."
But she nodded eagerly, her eyes sparkling.
"They are! I never got to change you when you were a baby, so please, Kafka, just once, let me put them on you! Just for a minute! I promise it'll be cute!"
Kafka had never run faster in his life. He bolted straight into his room and locked the door behind him while Vanitas pleaded from the hallway, her voice both pitiful and dangerously persuasive.
"Kafkaaa, please! Just once! I won't tell anyone! It's a mother's wish!"
He stayed barricaded inside for hours, refusing to come out until she finally gave up.
That day, he decided it was officially a nightmare, one that he'd probably never live down.
But despite the coddling, he couldn't be angry.
Because behind all the ridiculous coddling and over-the-top affection was a simple truth: Vanitas just wanted to make up for all the lost time.
And even if she drove him half-crazy doing it, he couldn't help but smile, because she was finally right by her side which was his only wish for his whole life.
But even still, with Vanitas coddling him so tenderly all the time, Kafka couldn't help but feel a need to give something back.
From the very beginning, that thought had followed him, he wanted to do something for her in return.
To show his gratitude somehow. To make her feel as loved and cherished as she made him feel every single day.
He wanted to understand her better, to know what made her happy, what she enjoyed, what she dreamed of.
After all, she seemed to know everything about him.
Whether it was his habits, his little quirks, even the things he didn't consciously notice about himself, she knew.
It was uncanny, almost supernatural.
But then again, she had been watching over him all his life, even when he didn't know it.
She could predict his reactions before he had them. She could finish his sentences. She knew what he was feeling even when he didn't say a word.
Yet when it came to her, his mother, he realized how little he actually knew.
What did she like?
What did she enjoy?
What made her happy, apart from him?
He'd tried asking her once. And then again. And again.
But every single time, her answers were always the same, warm, but hopelessly same.
"Your favorite food, my dear, is my favorite food." She had said with a laugh.
"What hobbies do I like?...The same as yours, of course."
"Books, music, art, whatever you love, I love too."
At first, Kafka thought she was just being evasive or teasing him, but over time he realized she truly meant it.
Her entire world, the things she ate, read, talked about, thought about, revolved around him.
He wasn't just her son. He was her purpose.
It was strange, humbling, and a little overwhelming.
He didn't quite know what to do with that kind of love.
How was he supposed to repay someone who would move heaven and earth just to be near him?
He'd tried to think of gifts, gestures, even grand actions...But all of them felt hollow.
Eventually, it hit him, he didn't need to do anything grand at all....He just had to be there.
That was all Vanitas truly wanted. His presence. His company. Just to be by his side.
Her greatest wish wasn't status or power.
It was something heartbreakingly simple—to never again be separated from her son.
So he stopped trying to find elaborate ways to thank her.
He just let her sit beside him whenever she wanted. Let her talk, let her hold him, let her hum softly against his hair when she felt nostalgic.
That alone brought her joy.
But even knowing that, Kafka couldn't shake the feeling that it wasn't fair.
Here was a woman who could quite literally give him the universe, a goddess who could bend the stars to her will, who could move the heavens just to make him smile, and all she asked in return was for him to stay near her. To exist within arm's reach.
It felt too one-sided, too undeserved.
And yet, as he looked at her, her eyes shining with love so pure it almost hurt, Kafka couldn't help but think, with a faint, wistful smile, that maybe he really was the luckiest man alive.
Not just because of the family he had built, but because of her.
A mother who loved him so much it defied reason.