The Mind-Reading Mate: Why Is the Lycan King So Obsessed With Me?!-Chapter 497: A Mother Is Still Human (I)

Edmund fell silent for a moment, his lips pressed into a thin line. "The situation is... complicated," he said gently. "I just didn’t want you to face something so terrible on your own." He lowered his voice. "It worries me."

Inside his head, his mind was far less calm. [If I had been by her side, I would have let her see everything directly. But since she was alone...] Edmund sighed inwardly. His thoughts moved so quickly that Primrose could barely follow them. [I just didn’t want my wife to carry that stress by herself.]

[And... I already let her go through it alone today.] He sighed again.

Primrose did not respond immediately. It seemed that before discussing the matter of Veloria, there was something else she needed to talk about.

Slowly, she shifted back against the headboard and motioned for Edmund to sit beside her.

Primrose drew her knees up, wrapping her arms loosely around them. Resting her chin there, she turned her head slightly toward him. "Sir Leofric told you what happened, didn’t he?"

"He did." Edmund slid an arm around her waist, gently pulling her closer. "I’m sorry you had to handle that alone."

Primrose smiled faintly. "Even if you had been there, I’m not sure you could have seen the fragments of my memories with me." She added in a low voice, "At least Sir Leofric stayed with me, even though he wasn’t very helpful."

Edmund opened his mouth to speak, then closed it again. In the end, he did not know what he should say.

"I’m sorry," he murmured.

"Stop apologizing. It’s not your fault." Primrose frowned, her expression sharp enough to warn him that she truly would get angry if he kept blaming himself.

"I’m so—I mean..." Edmund quickly corrected himself. "...I’m sure you must have been terrified, witnessing something so awful alone."

Primrose had told him Leofric was with her, yet Edmund kept brushing that aside, as though Leofric’s presence barely mattered. Still, he wasn’t entirely wrong.

"It really was frightening," Primrose admitted. She curled into herself slightly, lowering her head. "The memories felt so real. For a moment, I thought I was living again as Rose. I... I was truly scared."

Rose had been raised in a filthy, miserable room, so unlivable that Primrose could still recall the stench that clung to the air.

"I even thought I might have to endure living in that awful place for a long time," she said with a quiet sigh. "Can you imagine me living somewhere like that?"

Edmund shook his head lightly but remained silent. He knew she still needed to release everything weighing on her heart.

"But I think I could have endured that kind of life," Primrose continued, her voice softer now. "What I could never endure..."

Her fingers tightened slightly around her legs. "...was knowing that my father died because of me."

"It wasn’t your fault," Edmund replied quickly, almost within three seconds. "If we told Father about this, I’m sure he would think the same as I do."

Primrose did not respond, so Edmund repeated softly, "Primrose, it wasn’t your fault."

She already knew Edmund and Lazarus would say that. But if Zarius had never decided to take her away from that filthy warehouse, and if he had never raised her, he might have lived a long life.

Zarius would not have had to die in such a tragic way.

She clutched the fabric over her chest, feeling as though something was trying to tear its way out of her heart. Even so, Primrose tried to suppress that feeling. She believed that if she cried too much, her baby would feel her sadness.

"Wife... do you want to cry?" Edmund suddenly asked, saying something she did not expect.

[Why isn’t she crying?] Edmund wondered silently. [My wife usually cries when she’s frightened or sad. Does she feel uncomfortable right now?]

[I—]

Edmund stopped himself. There was no point continuing that line of thought when Primrose could hear it.

"Just cry," he said gently.

The words were simple, but his voice was so warm that Primrose nearly lost control of her emotions.

"I’ve cried too much before," Primrose whispered. "I’m afraid our baby might become sick if their mother keeps crying."

It wasn’t just fear speaking, but a belief that had been carved into her over many years. Countless times, Primrose had heard people say things like:

"A mother must be strong."

"A mother must not be weak."

"A mother carries the world for her child."

From time to time, Primrose saw women whispering, judging, and scoffing at other mothers. They scoffed at mothers who cried from exhaustion, at mothers who admitted they were afraid of childbirth, and at mothers who dared to say, "This hurts."

As if motherhood meant surrendering the right to be human.

As if becoming a mother meant becoming something that should endure everything... silently.

But when Primrose truly thought about it, didn’t that sound cruel? Wasn’t a mother still a living, breathing person?

How could any living person remain strong all the time? Even the bravest soldiers—those who survived the most brutal battles—sometimes returned home and wept.

It was because they were living people, and their pain demanded release.

"And our baby would be heartbroken if they ever realized their mother was only pretending to smile for their sake." Edmund’s voice was soft, but the words landed gently and firmly at the same time.

He moved closer, and he placed his palm on Primrose’s stomach, gently caressing it. "I once read a book about motherhood," he said. "It said that becoming a mother doesn’t mean you have to bury your feelings."

His thumb moved in slow, soothing circles. "You’re still allowed to feel."

A mother was still allowed to cry, still allowed to be tired, and still allowed to hurt.

For a moment, Primrose didn’t answer right away. She simply stared at him in disbelief. "You read a book about motherhood?"

Edmund nodded without hesitation. "Since you’re going to become a mother soon, wouldn’t it be better if I tried to understand motherhood as well?" he said. He quickly added, "Don’t worry, I’ve also read books about how to be a good father."

Sometimes, Primrose was amazed by her husband. He wasn’t the type of person who enjoyed burying himself in books, but whenever it concerned his family, he would search for the best book on the subject and even memorize its contents.