There was only one conviction that her unstable self could accept with certainty. When she thought of what it meant to be a parent, all she could remember was the man who'd acted as her father, a smiling abuser she'd executed with her own hands, and her mother, who'd chosen to sever their bond of trust rather than disrupt her comfortable life in order to protect her daughter. So if a woman who had spent every day of twelve years showering her son with love and fighting for his sake—a woman who'd raised someone as impossibly pure as Hazō in the hellhole that was Hidden Mist—told her that she was unfit to be a parent, then Mari was unfit to be a parent. She'd always known, in her heart of hearts, but thought that if she pretended hard enough, maybe it would come true.