Work Text:
Gianni is a kind man, our daughters love him. He took little or no care of them, but when it was necessary he did everything he could, even now he is doing everything he can.
- Elena Ferrante, The Lost Daughter
It wasn’t as if Sakura had immediately fallen in love with the idea of motherhood, no - Sarada had been unplanned and unexpected, even if Sakura herself was a bit of a fool to be surprised, as if unprotected sex with the man you had eloped with could lead to any other surprises. In the years following Sarada’s birth, Sakura felt odd being referred to as a mother. Yes, she loved Sarada. Or, the way Sakura felt about her daughter was beyond love. Love, she would admit, she wasn’t quite skilled at – she felt it too wholly, too intensely, without regard for her happiness or safety – but this, this even went beyond those feelings of love. Sakura loved her daughter more than life, more than limbs, more than any feelings of self or others. Sakura would rip out the sky, the stars, would destroy the moon.
Still, it felt wrong whenever others mentioned her status as a mother; rather, she felt herself to be a lone guardian, much like a dog, to the squealing, round-faced babe that was suddenly dropped into her care (she barely remembered labour, only pain and the pinched face of Karin, and then suddenly a dripping and rashed child was being placed in her arms and all Sakura could focus her energy on was to breathe through her sobs). But Sakura was nothing if not adaptable – well, either adaptable, or whatever you would call a woman who bull-headedly kept going, such as when she was a bursting eight months pregnant and trekking through enemy territory on the slim hope that she may make contact with her ghostly husband - and learned to disregard any connotations of motherhood. Whatever motherhood meant to anyone else, to Sakura, it just meant her and Sarada. Whatever they were, it would be.
(After all, it wasn’t as if Sakura herself had changed much. In her head, she saw herself as someone who suddenly mastered schedules, proper eating habits, domestic engineering. Even though Sarada was always fed, Sakura still skipped lunch most days. She still stayed up all night out of - stubbornness, out of a childish desire to finish her book in the transient hours of dawn, or maybe just her own hubris. She didn’t suddenly learn how to iron.)
Sakura loved Sarada in all her stages, completely and wholly, without prejudice. But of course, she had a favourite stage, and Sakura’s favourite was the ages two to four, when Sakura’s annoying personality and tendencies could be fully capitalized upon. The house was never quiet. Sakura would put her all into her stories, draping mops over her head, caking her face in unappealing colours, those drying paints leaving rashes in their wake – to look like Sarada’s beloved characters, to pull Sarada’s bubbling and screeching laughter from her. They would press their oily noses to the window when it rained, waiting in anticipation to roll into the mud until it soaked past their raincoats, down their collars, to the pink of their skin. The house was a mess, sticky and cluttered. She was so happy. Of course, there were bad days – Sarada sobbing because Sakura wouldn’t let her bite through the waxen banana skin, or follow the soap suds down the drain to say goodbye, or because something just didn’t feel right and no child knows how to handle those things – days Sakura would come home still smelling of foul blood and infection, days she felt like a motion and not a human, days where she needed four fingers of scotch just to sleep for a few hours – oh, and bed times were the worst. Sarada would refuse to sleep, would scream herself hoarse in her soft pink pajamas; sweating, crying, rivers of snot leaving her freshly bathed body wet and grimy. But those days felt so full, not a single moment was empty or lacking, no body missing from their home. Ino would visit with her husband and son in tow and her face would clench at the site of the house – dishes piled at the sink, laundry scattered like confetti, Sakura’s brittle, unwashed hair – but would say nothing of her life and her life choices, because how could she? When Sarada was such a plump, rosy cheeked babe with not one ounce of stranger danger, eager to grab at Ino’s shimmering ponytail and laugh at Sai’s silly drawings.
As Sarada had grown, grown from baby cute to a child – to a girl, lanky limbs, attitude, that sour smell – she had become prone to tantrums, anger, questioning everything her mother said. Only then did Sakura start to wish - or, not wish, but contemplate, wonder - for another body pressed into their house to help diffuse any childhood terrors. But like all things marking Sarada's growth, Sakura is happy for it – when she was that age, she was too busy yearning for attention whilst simultaneously trying to become invisible – and had been expecting it – after all, Sakura had been a girl with a mother. Mothers – benign deities, cruel villains, rubber-nippled soothers – had to be a strong, straightforward presence. It was rare that the same was asked of fathers. Well, at least her own; Kizashi was benevolent, fumbling, and content to fade to the background until training wheels needed to be removed, or a head to be patted. Sakura never quite asked Sasuke, or even thought too hard about it, because she was too busy trying to fill Sarada’s life full to the brim.
Sakura had been terrified at the idea of parenthood at first. Molding a tiny human into themselves, creating complexes in an effort to prepare them for the realities of life, teaching them right from wrong. But Sarada – Sarada blew past those fears with the force of a tornado. Sarada was a presence. She was stubborn, and smart, and skeptical. Confident, and much too prideful. Sakura was terrified and relieved. Rather than guiding her child, she felt that Sarada was marching through life toward her true self, while Sakura was haplessly tripping after her, trying to keep her safe, trying to keep her happy. She was relieved; shy children were the hardest. You can’t teach a child not to be afraid, only how to be brave. Terrified, because there were some things she would never be able to protect her bold, confident girl from. Would her bold, confident girl one day pinch the skin at her waist, willing it to be smaller? Would a man twice her age brush past her too close – maybe she would yell, or start a fight – but would she see it happen to another who wouldn’t say a thing, just hold their breath until it was over? Would she say something in their stead – but then later on, maybe hours or even days, sitting as the only girl at her team dinner eating grease-slick yakisoba with an extra order of meat on the side – think about how many times a day that same thing happened, to how many women, how many girls, how many things worse, when that girl didn’t even blink? Sarada didn’t have the same girlish insecurity Sakura had when she was young – Sakura, who knew words like diets and desirability at a much younger age, who stuffed her feet into her outgrown shoes until they bled because of ghostly traditions of femininity and beauty - but that didn’t make her safe. After all, the world loved to break down strong things until they submitted. It wasn’t as fun if they were already cutting themselves down.
No, Sarada was not girlish or vain the way Sakura had been, but she was prideful. Would grin with her lip smashed from jumping down the willow tree down the street, but cry all night when Inojin beat her at a game of cards. Sakura had insisted all of Sarada’s pride and stubbornness had come straight from her father, until Sasuke sent a neatly-paragraphed letter in response conceding that while it was likely his pride, he could recall thirteen supporting factors of why he believed her stubbornness came straight from Sakura, one of the points being carried a torch for me for years despite no contact and also I was a criminal and ending with a curt I do love that about you.
Sakura wanted to protect Sarada forever, curl over her like a suit of armor, keep her bold and confident until eternity. Sakura would change the world to keep her like that. If Sasuke, on his lonely, never-ending mission, could change the world to keep their girl bold and brash – Sakura would give him her life, the moon, the stars.