Coincides with Chapter 28 of A Normal Life:

It wasn't sure this intel was correct. In fact, he was almost sure it wasn't. He looked again to the paper and adjusted his coat so that he wouldn't be seen. He tried his best to avoid cities, at least when in them finding the most discreet places. In this case, he has no choice. Azazel studied the paper once again, and then hesitantly knocked. On the other side of the door, he could hear a shuffling, and he pulled his coat closer around him. The doorknob turned and he felt the urge to teleport away, but before he could, the door was opened and a dark haired woman stood in it's place.

"Can I-" she cut herself off as her expression changed, eyes widening. She was older than he remembered, and that made sense. It had been forty years since he'd seen her. Though her eyes were the same.

Incredibly, he found himself without words. It was hard to come face to face with someone you'd mourned as dead years before. "Mama?" he said finally.

The woman took a deep breath then leaned out the door to look around outside. She took hold of his coat and pulled him into the house, closing the door behind him. Inside the house now, Azazel removed his hat and his mother gasped. "Aleksandr?" her hand went over her mouth. "Lord above, Aleksandr. I thought you were dead long ago."

"I thought the same," he told her, avoiding her gaze. A part of him always wondered what a reunion like this would be, but now in the moment it was incredibly awkward. Did he expect her to throw her arms around him and hold him tight? His wife's treatment of their children had tainted his expectations, as his mother had never been the mother his wife was. Yet still, here he was.

"Well, come in," she told him, gesturing toward the living room. "I will get you a drink. Do you still like lemonade?"

"Da," he responded, removing his coat. He placed it on a chair as he moved around the room, taking in pictures here and there. He frowned as he picked up one of a few small children.

"You always loved lemonade when you were younger," she said as she returned to the room. She paused as she saw him with the picture in hand, then placed the lemonade on the coffee table. "Those are my grandchildren."

"Grandchildren?" he repeated, replacing the picture on the mantle.

"Yes," she replied. "Beautiful little ones."

He took a seat on the couch, still avoiding her gaze. "You have other children?"

"I do," she responded. "A daughter and son. Tanja and Jakob. I suppose they are your brother and sister."

He nodded. His mother pushed the lemonade toward him. "Drink, little one. It's just like I always made it."

Azazel lifted a brow at the way she spoke to him. 'Little one' was the closest she'd ever come to a term of endearment for him. He took a sip of the lemonade and felt transported. As if he could literally taste his childhood. A bizarre and comforting feeling. It was odd, knowing his mother had had an entire life after him, other children and now other grandchildren. It made him feel even less significant. "You married then?"

She nodded. "He passed away last year."

"I'm sorry," he responded to her.

"Thank you," his mother smiled at him. "You've always been such a sweet boy. I often hoped that you'd made it out of all that."

"Mama," he paused, looking away from her. "Why didn't you try to find me?"

"Alek," she began with a sigh. "There is so much you don't know. I-" she paused. "How has your life been? Tell me about it."

He wasn't sure how much he wanted to share, in regard to his profession and the things he'd been involved in. A look to the mantle again created an odd feeling of competition against the siblings he had no idea he'd had until minutes ago. "I am married, and have three children."

She smiled again. "That is good to hear."

He reached into his back pocket and pulled out his wallet to retrieve pictures. "Kurt, Christine and Cynthia," he handed them over. "And their mother there, my wife Moira."

His mother took the pictures and looked over them. "They are lovely, child," she turned the image of Moira to him. "This is your wife?" Azazel nodded. "Beautiful woman. You're a very lucky man."

"I know," he agreed. "I am happy, now, that I can show you your grandchildren." He paused a moment, looking away. "Maybe you can one day meet them."

The woman bit his lip and looked to the window. "Maybe." Her answer was very noncommittal.

He still avoided her gaze. "Maybe I can meet my brother and sister."

He heard her breath out. "You will always be my son. My first born. But," she paused. "My life is different now. My family is different. The life before… I long ago shut that door. As happy as I am to see you, and I am little one, I don't wish to reopen it."

Her words hurt him, cut him to the core. He stood up and reached for his coat, unwilling to stay in this awkward hurt any further. He turned to her again, looking her in the eye. "You brought me into this world, mother," he started. "I do not understand. I cannot imagine cutting off my own child. You made me. I did not make the decision to be here."

She looked away from him, her expression heavy. He could barely make out as she said quietly, "I didn't make it either."

His emotions were running further out of his control and he threw his coat on. His mother stood and held the pictures out.

"Nyet," he said. "They are for you. To remember that there is more family out in this world, more grandchildren."

She pulled her hand back and glanced at the images again. "This was a good visit, Aleksandr," she told him. "I am glad you are alive and well."

He gave her a nod, but was beginning to feel overwhelmed with this. "Goodbye Mama," he said, and teleported before he could feel any more pain.

He reappeared in their trailer, Moira and Cynthia sitting together reading on the couch. Part of him mused over the fact that his teleporting no longer made his wife jump, as if she was always waiting for him to return. More than that, however, he felt emotionally drained by the situation. Moira looked up at him with a smile, which melted as she took in his face. Moving Cynthia off her lap, she stood to face him.

"What happened, my love?" she asked him, her voice dripping with concern. He simply ignored the question, attempting to turn his face away and hold back the feelings he desperately didn't want to feel. He felt her arms wrapping around him as the tears no longer stayed in place. "I'm so sorry."

Azazel sobbed into her hair, as the whole event hit him. To be simply cast aside by your mother, it was a pain he had not expected and yet was worse than he could have. His wife held him tightly, her hands rubbing over his back as he cried. He had no memory of his mother ever consoling him this way, no memory of anyone. He'd spent such a large portion of his life on his own, and had been trained that way from such a young age. This hadn't been the first time he'd cried in front of Moira, hadn't been the first time she'd consoled him. Yet he was coming to the realization that before Moira, he had not truly felt the intense feelings he was right now. She was the first person in his world who truly and unconditionally loved him and until this moment he hadn't realized he'd gone his whole life without it.

He pulled away from her, his face tear streaked, to look at her. Her face looked pained, as if his own was hurting her. She reached a hand up and stroked his cheek lovingly, wiping his tears. He felt an arm grasp his leg and looked down at his youngest, holding onto him. "Daddy, don't cry."

Moira put her hand on the girl, pulling her into their embrace. He bent to lift her into his arms, bringing her face to his level. As he gazed on his daughter, he felt less understanding of his mother's position. How could one truly push their child away? His father had never been a part of his life, he didn't know a single fact about the man. A part of him wondered, did his mother hope he was dead? If her life seemed to flourish so much without him. He pushed these infectious thoughts to the back of his head. Cynthia, his odd little girl who was so withholding of her affection, leaned forward and placed a kiss on his nose. "All better Daddy?"

He couldn't help but crack a small smile, giving the girl a kiss on the cheek. "Da, all better moya zvyozdochka." His other arm wrapped around Moira's waist. He had more love than he would need in a thousand lifetimes, from the family he'd created. Why did he need anyone else?