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Anakin Skywalker had very few memories of his early childhood, yet one he held close was of his mother. She had returned to their quarters later than expected, leaving little Ani to wait for her in their kitchen. He could so clearly remember how her exhausted face crumbled away when she looked at him. A small smile dancing across her lips.
“You shouldn't be up this late Ani.”
“I wanted to make sure you got home safe.”
At seven Anakin could not name the emotion that crossed his Mother's face in that moment, it was akin to the looks the elders would display during the selling season. A bone-deep grief that would never wash away, forever staining the faces of those around him.
“No need to waste all that worry over me Anakin,” Shmi ran a hand through his hair, “Now, it’s far past your bedtime.”
Letting out a groan, Anakin pushed himself away from the kitchen table and begrudgingly made his way up the narrow staircase and toward their small shared room. He waited, at the top of the stairs, quietly turning to watch his Mom sink into the chair he had left vacant. He studied the deep worry lines that life had etched into her skin and watched as her callused hands made quick work of taking down her bun, allowing her long brown hair to fall down her back.
Shmi took a moment to stretch, pushing down the aches of the day. Anakin would watch as she whispered a quick prayer before rising from her seat to tuck him into bed.
--
Almost four decades later, Anakin Skywalker lay dying on the floor, trapped within the confines of the metal abomination keeping him alive. There he would understand the look on his Mother's face, as a mockery of their pain was now displayed on him. The bone-deep understanding that your child has grown up far too fast and nothing you do can make up for that loss. What would she say, his mother, if she saw him now? Would her look mirror his own? Or would she spit at his feet, ashamed of the monster her oh-so-considerate son and become?