Mehmet was born in the spring, and everything that followed fell into place like coins on a counting board.
Once I had a son, I belonged to a different world.
One with sharper edges and a higher view.
Now they call him Sultan.
And me Valide.
The smiles have grown thinner. The bows deeper.
Even the eunuchs walk differently when I pass.
But she still looks at me the same way.
My mother-in-law. Kösem Sultan.
As though I were a child playing dress-up in a dead queen’s crown.
She used to call me kızım—my daughter.
She'd say it sweetly, with that practised warmth older women wear like perfume.
At first, I believed her. Or wanted to.
But when Mehmet was born, something shifted in her smile.
It held.
Not long after the birth, she visited my rooms.
Brought gifts. Gowns, silk slippers, a small gold charm to hang above the cradle.
She admired the baby, touched his cheek, said he had his father's mouth.
Then, as she rose to leave, she looked at me—too long.
She said, "Take care of yourself, Hatice. This palace is no place for weakness."
And I understood that she wasn’t talking about me falling ill.
That was the first time I felt it:
The edge in her voice. The calculation behind the courtesy.
The awareness that my boy had moved me up the board.
And that someone would have to be taken off it.
Kösem had ruled longer than some sultans.
She was elegant, untouchable, and everywhere at once.
A shadow at every council meeting.
A whisper behind every appointment.
She didn't need to raise her voice. Other people did that for her.
But something changed when Mehmet was crowned.
I caught her watching him, her smile too wide, her eyes too quiet.
He was too young to see it.
I wasn’t.
That’s when I began to wonder if she was afraid of me.
Not because of who I was.
But because of who I might become.
Tonight, my son asked me to stay until he fell asleep.
He hasn't done that in months.
He was curled on his side,
arms around the stuffed falcon I'd had stitched for him last year.
Too old for it, really, but he still hides it under the blankets.
He didn’t say much. He rarely does.
He’s a quiet boy, like me.
His eyes move more than his mouth.
Always watching. Always listening.
Too young to carry an empire.
But here we are.
I sat beside him on the mattress, smoothed his hair,
whispered a prayer I only half believe.
He asked me if büyükanne—his grandmother—was coming tomorrow.
I said I wasn’t sure.
He told me about the gift she’s brought this morning.
The sweets. The bracelet. The blue glass beads.
“She said it would keep me safe,” he said.
I didn’t answer.
He didn’t notice.
When his breathing slowed, I stayed a little longer.
Watched the way his chest rose and fell.
Remembered how he fit in the crook of my arm,
the first night they took him to the harem nursery.
He was mine then. Just mine.
Before they gave him a crown.
Before they called him Sultan.
Now, he's everyone's.
And still, he’s mine.