Sleight of Hand
He's the first thing you ever loved, back when you could cradle his cheek with only two of your fingers, back when you had a mother and father who smiled adoringly over your head at each other. You don't really know how they smiled and sometimes you forget the perfume your mother used to wear, but for Mokuba you spin fairytales and conjure up the scent of fresh laundry.
He clutches your fingers, eyes wide when you tell him that father used to lift the both of you high on his shoulders. His nose crinkles in sympathy when you tell him mother hated to bake; the flour always dusted white over her cheeks and made her sneeze. He falls asleep listening to your stories and you run your fingers over his hair. You watch fables become memories in the soft pleased curve of his mouth, watch straw become gold.
After a while, he doesn't need you to spoil him, but the words fall unbidden from your lips anyway. You can't stop singing the song you started long ago, too caught up in its intricacies, in the slow crescendo that keeps building in minor chord, somewhere in the background.
He gets his license before he turns 20 because you pulled some strings. For graduation, you give him his own yacht and champagne for his friends. Before prom, you straighten his tie and don't set a curfew, just watch him quietly by the doorway, when he goes off alit with hopefulness and a corsage, a promise cradled in his arm, to his girl in pink lace.
You close your eyes.
On his wedding day, you give Mokuba away at the altar.
It's just a moment, but you lean over to him, whisper in his ear the three words you've never ever said, and he turns and smiles, brushes your elbow, brushes away to meet his bride, his girl in white lace.
He is alit with happiness.
He's the first one you loved, the only one you've loved, and you give Mokuba everything he wants – and nothing he doesn't.