[ WP ] Write a story from a seemingly third person view , then shock the reader

Susan Hampton. My mother. She was kind, intelligent, endearing, and everything in between. She was honest, yet considerate. Lax, but efficient. She was destined to be a working mother: one of the toughest jobs in the world. She provided a loving home, and in turn, I gave her the only thing I could -- unconditional love. 
 
 I try my best to remember everything about her. The sweet smell of her shampoo that I always got a face-full of as I entered her loving arms. Her favorite plum-colored shirt, that was a bit too big, but comfy nonetheless. Even the way she hugged Dad; desperately clinging to him, not just because she needed someone, but because it hurt to let go, even while knowing full well that he could n't care less if she did. 
 
 She was a fighter. And she was a winner, although not by force. Every punch, both physical and emotional, she knew exactly how to dodge. I envied her for this ability, while also admiring her for it with all of my being. It was the most satisfying sound, his belt, cracking in the air as she quickly ducked, disabling a dicttor of his absolute power, even if only for a second. It was something I would never dream of doing -- yet she did it so fearlessly, even whilst understanding the consequences of her actions. 
 
 As I think back now, she did it for me. She wanted to show me something. She needed something, *anything* to inspire her son to rebel. But he did n't. I did n't. 
 
 I took every hit, wincing as the belt cracked on my back. `` I fell of my bike,'' I would say. *'' Got cut in the woods. `` * And my mother would know. She would *wait*. Wait for me to speak up. But I did n't. I never did. 
 
 But it does n't make any difference now. Because the woman who used to privately praise me for my acts of rebellion is gone. My guardian angel, who could n't stand up for herself, was waiting for me to stand up for her. And she has given up. 
 
 I'm sorry. 
 
 I made my way out of that household. I ran as far away as possible, from the moment I released Dad's forceful grasp. 
 
 And I left you there, Mom. Because the mother I once knew is gone. The brave soul that lit a fire inside of you, the one that inspired your small acts of deviance -- well, it's fizzled out. 
 
 I think of you every day. The way you used to watch me wince, taking the hits because I did n't think there was another option. It was killing you. And now the roles are reversed. I ca n't bear to think of all the times you sat silently, after the day I left, with no one left to inspire -- nobody left to see you be brave. 
 
 Please forgive me. 
 
 Your Son, 
 
 Henry Hampton.
