Tower of Paradise

It was fascinating to feel how my mouth instinctively moved as I pressed it against my mother's chest. It was an involuntary movement, similar to that of my arms and legs, and I felt like a small animal seeking shelter.

I felt a warm liquid flow down my throat without perceiving much of its taste, as if I were drinking water right after waking up in the morning.

I could focus on drinking breast milk because my limbs didn’t move, thanks to my mother wrapping me in a blanket, like a cocoon protecting a butterfly before its first flight, while she carefully held my neck as my esophagus filled amidst maternal love.

I didn’t pull my lips away from my mother’s chest until I couldn’t drink anymore, and my lips stopped moving reflexively when I felt full.

My mother lifted me and began patting my back. I thought I had something stuck in my stomach, but it was just a burp. I felt renewed, and the woman’s laughter was music to my ears, like the song of a siren, as I felt my eyelids close.

The second day, my world changed completely.

My mother, demonstrating the strength of a tiger, decided she was done resting and got up to carry out her daily tasks.

I had the opportunity to see her full figure. Despite giving birth just the day before, she was an attractive woman, probably in her twenties.

Without a doubt, she was well-endowed in every way, with a toned body perfected through effort. Her hair, which reached down to her shoulder blades, was a beautiful golden hue, with reddish highlights scattered throughout.

The candlelight made it look as though flames were dancing within her.

The days passed slowly. A week after my birth, my senses began to develop gradually. However, life as a newborn was far from exciting.

I spent most of the time lying in my crib, unable to move properly. I felt incredibly bored and powerless.

Gathering information about my new world was an arduous task. I couldn’t even clearly distinguish the passage of days and nights. The reason was simple: I slept almost all the time. A baby’s body was terribly inefficient.

I struggled against the constant sleepiness, but it was a losing battle. As soon as I opened my eyes, my eyelids would close again as if they weighed tons. And when I managed to stay awake for a few moments, hunger would immediately assault me.

There was no point in resisting. When the need became unbearable, I resorted to the only method at my disposal: crying out loud.

The pride and honor of my past life had no place in my new reality. In desperate times, desperate measures were required. Crying was the only way to communicate my needs and ensure my survival.

Despite my efforts, my mother hadn’t been able to sleep since the first day. There were no signs of my father...

Father... Apparently, in those times, child-rearing fell exclusively on the mother. My mother never took her eyes off me when she was home alone with me.

She carefully tucked me in every time my limbs slipped out of the blankets, even if she was dozing. She tried to help me sleep after feeding and burping me.

My mother’s daily routine consisted of feeding me, burping me, and helping me fall asleep over and over again. I pretended to sleep when my mother wanted to help her. She could only sleep for about an hour whenever I pretended to doze off.

I saw my mother cry for the first time after a week.

I heard her crying out of exhaustion, although her silhouette was still blurry. Her sobs were the opposite of the joyful laughter I had heard when I was born. My mother must have been at her limit, as she hadn’t had a proper night’s sleep in a week.

I was her first and only son, so it was the first time she was raising a child. She couldn’t go to the bathroom alone and slept for just an hour at most.

Then she broke down in tears, and I realized how difficult it had been for her to raise me.

I saw her stop crying to feed me, and at that moment, I felt that I could go hungry for a day if it meant my mother could sleep deeply today.

However, my mother grew anxious and called everywhere when I suppressed my hunger pangs and didn’t cry.

Twelve times a day, every two hours.

My mother fed me and burped me again as if she hadn’t cried. My goal wasn’t far nor in the future. It was here, right in front of me.