The guitar weighed just as much as the anxiety. Dinah Laurel Lance had spent Sunday afternoon tidying up their little apartment, tossing out greasy pizza boxes and washing blood from clothes till her fingers pruned. There's nothing to worry about, she reminded herself through closed eyes. Food's in the oven, song's picked. It'll be perfect. But that never stopped crime-fighting from getting in the way of her mom coming home late… even on Mother's Day.

Feeling constricted, she flung the strap over her head and leaned the instrument against the arm of the couch. She chose to flip through channels as mindlessly as she could, ignoring the nerves beginning to carve its home in her insides. Nick at Nite. MTV. Gotham News. If it wasn't about the Black Canary, she wasn't interested. Busting trafficking rings, putting mobsters and corrupt cops behind bars, all the while supporting a family on her own… Now that was newsworthy. If only they knew.

Dinah soon made out the familiar creak traveling up the fire escape, heart thumping out of her chest. Casting aside her favorite quilt, she skipped over to the window across from her, each grating step closer within earshot. A light rap on the smudged glass.

Even in the shadows of the moonlight and the faint glow of the Ace Chemicals billboard, Dinah could tell she was in bad shape. Shoulder-length locks, normally tucked behind Dinah Drake's right ear, now hung before her wincing face. She slumped over wobbly knees on the steel platform, patches of her suit frayed from the night's crusading. "Hey, baby!" she greeted softly.

Dinah flicked open the latches. "Hi, Momma."

Large calloused hands squeezed hesitantly. Dinah guided her mom through the frame with a grunt, the both of them losing balance upon reentry. Now in the pale light of the lamp and television, the extent of the damage could be assessed. Bloodied gold and navy leather exposed purple bruises and open wounds. Notches of thin netting down the side of her legs hung loose, brandishing further scrapes. Mrs. Carter would have to sew her jacket again. Dinah bit down a retort in a tone she didn't altogether mean. There goes my allowance.

Her mother fell to her usual spot on the couch with an exasperated sigh of relief. On the coffee table, a first aid kit was opened atop a fresh pair of pajamas.

"Off" the little bird snapped, honing in on the chicken nuggets and tater tots in the kitchen.

"Yes, ma'am" the matriarch saluted, grinning with a partially-split lip. Her gut pulsed with a melancholy more positive than negative. She bent forward at a snail's pace toward her boots and unfastened the double-knotted laces. Equally slow went her jacket and tights.

Relaxation lasted all but ten seconds until the whine of the closing oven and a steel pan smacking the top of the stove. Fear and adrenaline shocked her sluggish joints once more.

"Didn't I tell you to stay away from that?"

Colliding plates and the tinkling of cups. "Maybe..."

Dinah Drake reached for the kit and clothes, appreciating the effort after unclouded consideration. They were still warm from the dryer. She ripped open a rubbing alcohol pad and dabbed at her upper arm.

"I was being safe!" Dinah added semi-mockingly, opening the fridge and squeezing bottles of ketchup and tartar sauce. They made an unflattering sound that still made her giggle.

If your father were alive to see this… Dinah Drake envisioned his pride.

Dinah put on a guiltless expression as she made her way back to the living room. Any reservations left in her mother's system immediately subsided. Her spindly arms wobbled in an attempt to balance two plates of food, a pair of Disney-themed glasses of soda in hand. She flashed that signature smile, offering the steaming platter cheering, "Happy Mother's Day!"

"Aw, thank you!" she cooed in delight, the throb in her muscles momentarily dissipated. I completely forgot… "Beautiful work, Iron Chef Lance!"

Dinah couldn't bring herself to make a face at this show of affection. "Grazie, grazie" Dinah bowed, setting her own dishes on the table before plopping back onto the couch. She swiped the pad from blistered palms and replaced it with the chunky TV remote.

"Nuh uh," her mother argued. "Eat before it's cold."

Dinah got her to quiet by tending the larger gashes. "I'm fine."

Dinah Drake accepted defeat, albeit painfully. "Thought I was the parent around here."

"You are!"

Dinah moved on to the milder scratches minutes later, humming and finding a rhythm she only ever got through music and martial arts. A tingling sensation tickled the back of her head to her neck. Something about the motion of threading was oddly therapeutic, minus the oozing pus and peeled layers of tissue and flesh. She hated it otherwise.

Her dissatisfaction didn't go unnoticed.

A male reporter buzzed through the faint speakers of the box television set. "And now an update involving veteran vigilante Black Canary..."

"Wait!" exclaimed Dinah, battling the urge to gawk at the screen and fix her mom. The older Lance hardly divulged into specifics of her heroics.

Now was the perfect time to find anything else to watch. "Not now, Di" she began, only to be drowned out by shrill begging.

Her second life was always a double-edged sword. Dinah Drake wanted to adore that gleam in her daughter's eyes under different wasn't like she was gonna do it forever; she was at the end of her rope and it took too much time away from being a parent and running her flower shop. And what would she think of her once she quit? She exhaled glumly, wondering how to tackle these emotions and ease both of their qualms. No twelve-year-old should know half the stuff she does.

"Did I ever tell you that Nana had this ability?" She motioned behind the choker still clasped to her neck, a sound from which Dinah only ever heard when in serious trouble.

Dinah's fingers froze above the bandage she applied. Nana? She hid her bewilderment all too terribly. "That why she yells so much?"

Among other things. Her mom chuckled, lungs tight and agreeing momentarily with the hypothesis. "All the women in our family have it. I was only a little older than you when it was my turn." She noted the newfound incredulity in her daughter's face. "But that didn't mean I earned it."

Dinah leaned forward, completely enraptured by the tale. Dinah Drake took off the band and swallowed.

"When I was 18… your Nana gave me her old costume and told me to do some good with it. And why wouldn't I? Kicking ass outside my nine-to-five was right up my alley… Until you and Pop came along. It's been hard to shake ever since and I blame my mom every day for not giving me a choice."

"What I'm trying to say is… when you get your cry, remember that you don't need to put your life on the line to be my daughter. I know that's hard to hear after putting you through all this shit and I'm sorry. You just deserve so much better, Dinah!" She placed a reassuring arm around her shoulders, gauging how she would react to the next two lines. "Only you get to choose how to use your voice. That's why I want you to find your own path… by not making my choices."

Dinah furrowed her brow. Not be like Mom? Isn't that what she wanted? What I want? She couldn't tell where she landed. On one hand, she was constantly amazed by all the good her mother brought to the world. On the other, she never realized how much she resented her life because of it. Could she make that kind of promise? All she could do was nod to indicate understanding.

"Then you gotta stop," Dinah blurted after contemplation. She twiddled her painted thumbs in her lap and refused to make eye contact. The burden of losing another parent fell immediately to Dinah Drake's conscience, a color that tinged a vow long overdue.

"Look at me. I'm gonna. There's a friend at the GCPD who needs one more lead. After we nab this guy… I'm outta there."

"For real?"

She wanted to bottle up Dinah's hopefulness. "For good, baby. Then it'll be just you and me. No bruises, no late nights, all the time in the world."

Dinah pounced onto her mother, forgetting the pain she was in and the guitar which slid to the carpet with an unmelodic thud. "What's that doing here?" Dinah Drake cried through raucous laughter. The little Lance apologized, cheeks flushed in remembering what all the work of the past couple hours had been for.

"I wasn't gonna show you till we were done eating." She bent over to pick up the old Yamaha. The high E string had snapped earlier that day and the wood was obviously chipped from leaving it out of its case. She grasped the neck with clammy hands and hovered her fingers over the gunky strings. Dinah cleared her throat, her mother's face softening to an indescribable degree upon realization.

Dinah fought through the hesitation like she was taught to. She began a rendition of 'You Are My Sunshine', fretting chords she had mastered by the age of nine. At first, her voice wavered. It didn't help that the tuning pegs lowered the pitch of the strings in the fall. But knowing where she came from and hearing her mom's sobs after the day she'd had made Dinah feel all the more powerful and proud. Soon she was belting out the chorus and final verse, the canary cry itching to break from its cage just below the octave.

"Dinah..." There wasn't a sweeter word to their ears. "That means everything."

"You do so much… it's the least I could do."

"The least you can do is be yourself!" She planted a moist peck on Dinah's head and added before things got too cheesy, "But you won't hear me complain if I come home to dinner and a clean house every night."

"Maybe not every night," Dinah jested with that twinkle in her hazel eyes. "But more often."

And it was here, thinking back on all that was said and unstated in strong arms that fought back stiffness and fatigue, that Dinah liked to best remember her mother. Even though the coming weeks would uproot her universe and set her on a path in ways unimaginable, nothing could ever truly take away this moment and the woman that passed on her greatest gift.

Or so she continued to tell herself.