Anakin waited until Ahsoka was close enough to hear him if he spoke.
"When you're into poverty- live grinding the bones of your knuckles for any kind of scraps poverty," he explained without looking up, "you never learn how to take care of yourself. You don't think you're worth anything. You feel sick, but can swallow, eat anyways. You're tired, take more naps- you're just getting older. Rationalize."
He stopped talking for a moment. Swallowed. Too many emotions. But when did he ever not have too many emotions? But which ones were his, now? He wasn't prepared for how seamlessly these new ones wove themselves in the fabric of his consciousness, plaiting knots in his thoughts.
"By the time she saw the oncologist, they told her she only had," he shook his head slowly, "a few weeks to live." He dropped his arm to his side. "My commanding officers couldn't file the leave paper work fast enough to get me home to see her one last time before she passed away."
Blessed are those who mourn, for they will be comforted.
His mother hadn't been overly religious, hadn't raised him that way. But he knew she'd believed in a god- or a higher power, more like. Maybe he had before entering the air force. He no longer believed.
"Was she real?" the question was quite direct, the timber of his voice different from his explanation of his mother's death. A sure acknowledgment of Ahsoka's arrival; whereas before, he could have just been talking to the wind.