When I transmigrated into a tragic novel, the male lead was covered in blood and on the brink of death.
Remembering how he would imprison and torment me after he recovered in the original story, I had a bright idea. “I’ll save your life, but you have to call me Mom!”
The young Sixth Prince gritted his teeth. “You look younger than me.”
“I take good care of myself. I’m forty-six this year!” I made as if to leave. “Not going to call me that? Then I’m off.”
“Mom!” he forced out through clenched teeth.
From then on, I became his mother in name.
When he brought his beloved to meet me, I slammed the table and scolded him. “That girl has the face of a husband-killer. Your mother forbids it!”
When he ran into trouble fighting for the throne, I put on the Empress Dowager's airs. “Who dares bully my son? Let this old woman deal with them!”
At his coronation, he finally snapped. “Who are you, really?”
I smiled and pulled out the swaddling cloth from years ago. “Good boy, I still have the diapers you wore when you were born.”
