Familial Love
Itachi Uchiha.
This was Uchiha Yū's original name. The word "Itachi" means a solitary, nocturnal animal that lives during the day and is active at night, moving alone in the darkness and never traveling with its own kind.
This name seems like a prophecy, etched into destiny from an early age—alone, walking in the darkness, carrying unspeakable secrets, a knife that cannot be put down, and a road from which there is no turning back.
Itachi is such a being. He walks alone in the darkness, never seeing the light.
Then, Shisui Uchiha changed her name.
The word "pomelo" is quite simple; it refers to a type of citrus fruit with a thick peel that keeps well. It has a refreshing, slightly bitter taste, and once peeled, it reveals plump flesh and sweet and sour juice.
This name has the complete opposite meaning to "weasel." One is a nocturnal animal, while the other is a plant in the sunlight. One likes the darkness, while the other needs the sunlight. One is solitary, while the other grows in clusters on branches. One represents loneliness and coldness, while the other represents freshness and warmth.
If the "weasel" is "a lonely creature walking in the darkness," then the "yuzu" is "a warm presence growing in the sunlight."
This is what Shisui wanted her to become.
Not a lone traveler licking his wounds in the dark, but someone who can be touched by the sunlight, someone who can be enveloped in warmth, someone who can stand in the sunlight and reach out to receive something.
A name is really important. It can influence a person's entire life.
Originally, before the child was born, Uchiha Yū planned to name the child "Uchiha".
The name "You" means blessing, and "Yue" means moon. The meaning of this name is too obvious—this child was born for some kind of blessing, and came into this world to carry some kind of meaning.
This is a very selfish name, because in this name, the child is not himself, but a tool, a vessel, someone who is needed only because of others.
She thought this was the best thing she could give her child: meaning, purpose, and a reason for her to keep living.
However, when that day finally arrived, everything had changed.
When Uchiha Yū brought a life into this world herself, when she heard that first cry, when that tiny, wrinkled, bloodstained baby was placed in her arms—her heart was turned upside down.
All the things she thought she had figured out, all the things she thought she was prepared for, all the realizations she thought were "nothing special," shattered the moment she saw that small face, shattering them completely, leaving not even a trace.
The concept in my mind has become a reality.
Before this, "child" was a word, an idea, a tool she used to fill the emptiness in her heart.
She knew she wanted to have a child, knew she needed a child, and knew she should have a child.
But between "knowing" and "possessing" lies an abyss she has never crossed.
And when the baby was actually lying in her arms, when she looked down and saw those eyes that weren't fully open yet, when she felt that tiny body wriggling slightly in her arms—she had crossed that abyss.
What was originally just a goal, a plan, or something "should be done" has actually given birth to a unique, incredibly specific, and vibrant entity.
This existence is not a tool, not a crutch, not something she uses to fill an emptiness. This existence is herself, a person who, from now on, can cry, laugh, call for her mother, walk, and grow up.
This realization struck Uchiha Yū hard, making her tremble all over.
She never imagined that as a despised sinner, as an executioner with blood on her hands, as someone who had even severed ties with her beloved younger sister, she would one day be treated like this—by someone who completely trusted her, relied on her without reservation, and treated her as the life of her entire world.
That trust wasn't something she earned, something she deserved, or something she paid a price for. The baby understood nothing; she didn't know what she had done, or how many people in the world hated her.
The baby only knew that as long as she was there, it was safe; as long as she was there, it wouldn't be cold; as long as she was there, it wouldn't be hungry. Absolute trust, unreserved reliance, and a trust that required no conditions.
A sense of responsibility and maternal instincts were all awakened by this "absolute dependence."
Something had been dormant inside her for a very, very long time, so long that she thought it didn't exist at all. Then, to the sound of the baby crying, she suddenly opened her eyes.
Newborns are fragile, so fragile that they can't even turn their heads, so fragile that they can't even maintain their own body temperature, so fragile that they could disappear silently at any time if no one is there to watch over them.
This vulnerability brings something else entirely—the newborn trusts her completely. There's no doubt, no questioning, no tossing and turning at night wondering, "Is this person trustworthy?"
It's trust, pure, unadulterated trust that grows from instinct.
In terms of blood ties and relationships, Uchiha Yū's inner identity has been completely reconstructed.
She used to be a daughter, a sister, a traitor, a sinner. Each of these identities carried weight, each weighed on her, each reminded her—who you are, what you have done, and what kind of person you should be.
But now, she has a completely new identity, one that overshadows all her old identities, one that is heavier, deeper, and more unshakeable than any of them—mother.
Mother. This word wasn't given to her by anyone; she gave birth to it, created it from nothing with her own body. No one can take away this identity, nothing can erase it, and no past sins can make this identity insignificant.
In the days immediately following childbirth, Uchiha Yū often woke up in the middle of the night.
She wasn't woken up by noise; she woke up on her own, as if something inside her was reminding her—you should check on him.
She turned her head and looked at the tiny baby sleeping beside her. The face was so small that she could cover it with her palm. The eyes were closed, and she could see the fine veins on the eyelids. The mouth was slightly open, and the breathing was light and shallow, like a kitten purring. She just looked at it, motionless, and as she looked, tears streamed down her face.
However, her weeping was silent. Not because she was strong, but because—she was afraid of waking her son.
She would rather swallow all her voice, hold back all her tears, and suppress all her emotions in the ever-filling space in her chest than let him be disturbed.
The child's name has been decided again.
Uchiha.
The original name was abandoned—that selfish, purposeful name that used him as a tool.
Yang—the Yang of the sun, the Yang of sunlight, the Yang of light. This name has no purpose, no expectation, no meaning of "born for anyone".
Only blessings, blessings welling up from the deepest part of a mother's heart.
I hope he can live his whole life under the warm sunshine.
Itachi Uchiha was a brother-complex—or rather, a sister-complex. This was true in both worlds. Both Itachi and Yuzu understood their blood relatives very well.
Just like with Satsuki, Itachi Uchiha immediately recognized that person as his other sister, Sasuke from another world, a blood relative he could never sever ties with.
However, Uchiha Yū didn't recognize the person in front of her here.
She didn't recognize the boy standing at the door, nor did she realize whose face that seemed so familiar resembled. Her eyes, her mind, and her entire being were filled with only one thing.
The tiny, sleeping child in her arms, the one she wished she could give him everything she had— Uchiha.
That child had occupied her entire field of vision, filled all her thoughts, and become the only thing that existed in her eyes.
What other world, what surviving Uchiha clan members, what revenge, what the past—at this moment, in front of this mother holding her child, all these things became less important.
Her eyes were on the boy at the door, but her heart was entirely with the small, soft, and warm body in her arms.
Her fingers gently patted the child's back, once, once, and again, the rhythm slow and steady, as if the most important thing in the world was to let the child sleep well.