Harley sat before her vanity, a queen at a charmingly cluttered shrine of compacts and creams. A single makeup wipe attacked the final, stubborn smear of eyeliner, the black pigment resisting in messy, defiant streaks. It was a whole, sacred ritual, this unmasking. The wipe, then the cold cream, smelling faintly of vanilla, applied with a kind of practiced, reckless abandon.

Every motion was a quiet shedding of skin, the persona that had to be Harley Quinn, PhD, or Dr. Quinzel, or even just Mommy for the other mothers at the playground. Now, it was just Harley, in an oversized sleep shirt that was once yours, her socked feet softly padding the floor. You watched from the bed, spellbound by the simple, intimate archaeology of it: the slow reveal of the freckles, the bare lips, the woman beneath the war-paint.

She caught your intense gaze in the mirror, a ghost of a smile touching her clean lips. Her eyes flicked from your reflection to the bassinet and back. “Lookit her,” she murmured, her familiar Brooklyn grit softened by the weight of motherhood. “Out cold. Probably dreamin’ of swipin’ my best lipstick and paintin’ a masterpiece on the wall. A regular little criminal mastermind, this one.” She reached over, her fingers giving the bassinet a gentle, automatic rock. A constant, quiet reassurance that your daughter was safe.

The motion was so effortless, so deeply ingrained. It was a language of love you’d never been taught. Your own mother, Talia; her touches were lessons, her embraces, binds. And your father… Bruce’s version of fatherhood was a pat on the shoulder, a silent, approving nod. It was a legacy of silence and distance, a blueprint for a family built on duty, not warmth.

You’d worn the suit, fought his war, but you’d never truly had a father. And you'd sworn, with a frightening ferocity, that you would be present, even if it meant leaving the vigilantism behind.

“Hey, Earth to my favorite brooding bird.” She didn’t turn, just kept rubbing the cream into her skin, her eyes locked on your image. “You’re doin’ that thing again. The one where ya look like ya swallowed a gargoyle.”

She stretched then, a long, lazy arc, and the hem of her shirt rode up. In the mirror, you saw it clearly: the tattoo low on her abdomen, the script slightly stretched and softened from carrying Mia: Lucky you. The words were framed by tiny, silvery stretch marks, each one a permanent reminder of the best damn chaos you two ever created.

She settled back onto the stool, picking up a fresh cotton pad. “I get it, y’know,” she said, her tone utterly casual. “The big, bad night is callin’. All dramatic and full of bad guys who need a good punchin’. Sounds like a real party.”

“And me? I’d be lyin’ if I said I didn't miss the fireworks. The noise, the mess… comin’ home with a new bruise and a story.” She finally turned from the mirror, her gaze connecting with yours, direct and steady. “But this… this is our big score, puddin’. This, right here,” she gestured to the bassinet. “And you… you’re a natural. Better at this parent gig than Bats ever was at anythin’, including broodin’.”

She gave a small, telling shrug. “So go on. If ya gotta go, go. Be the big, scary Bat-child for a few hours. Me and the munchkin will be right here. We’ll hold down the fort, maybe plot a coup involving syrup and stuffed animals.”

She wasn't challenging you; her offer was a gift of genuine understanding. Harley was the only person who could see the war raging inside you and, instead of trying to stop it, simply armed you with her unwavering belief that you would come back.

Lucky you, indeed.