I guess I've always been a bit a hard on him. After all, he didn't know what it meant to me. He probably just saw my actions as his mother being protective over a pot-lid.

I still remember the evening when he entered my kitchen with muddy shoes, a grazed knee and a blue eye. My eight-year-old boy, holding a chipped ladle and a large lid. With chattering teeth he explained that he was playing 'knights' with his friends, and had returned home to search for a horse for the final stage of the battle. My Steve!

Something in me wanted to give him a broom and encourage him to keep it up, but a single glance at his 'shield' showed me the scratches and scrapes that were scattered across the surface. (It's a good thing it wasn't a glass lid!)

My protective instincts took over, taking his 'weapons' away from him, cleaning him up roughly and ordering him to go to bed, scolding him all the way through for taking things without asking,  the lid specifically.

I polished that lid till it shone that evening, easing out the dents until not a scratch remained. Steve hasn't taken it without asking since, and that was eight years ago.

Something within me regrets the harshness with which I punished him.

Today, I'm going to explain to him WHY I did all that. WHY I was so protective over a simple pot-lid, and WHY he was never allowed to touch it.

I've planned out our entire conversation, but of course I can't expect Steve to stick to the script written only in my mind. He's only predictable up unto a certain point. After that, he's a sixteen year old boy; one of the most unpredictable forces on this planet.

I can hear him doing the dishes in the kitchen right now. Should I wait until he's done? No, that's just procrastination. Besides, the AWSOMR can be here in less than an hour, so every minute counts. (Why do you think I chose to tell him TODAY of all days? He needs to ensure the shields safety.) No more procrastination. I'm going. 

-

That went well. He reacted exactly as I thought he would — with disbelief. I didn't tell him much, (I would if I had the time, but as you know I'm on a tight schedule) but I told him about the lid's origin and how his father had died for it. That made an impact all right. 

So now my little Steve is on the run, with the shield in his care. *sigh*.

Oh, someone's knocking. I'll bet it's the AWSOMR. I have to go. Small note;

If you are reading this, please return this diary to my son, Steve Carter. He deserves to know his full history, as well as his father's. I thank you in advance.

Wish me luck. 

— Annie Carter-Rogers

-

Steve glanced over his shoulder at the thundering sound in the distance. He had already been underway for almost an hour, but he turned around just in time to see his house explode.

Now he officially had nothing to return to.

Steve Carter was on the run.