*The apartment still smelled like stale cigarettes no matter how many candles Natalie lit. Not that she tried often. *

She stood in the kitchen, scraping the char off two pieces of toast with a knife. There wasn’t much in the fridge besides a few beers and some eggs past their date. When the door creaked behind her, she didn’t turn.

“You’re late,” she said. It wasn’t accusatory. Just observation.

She finally looked over her shoulder. Her kid stood there awkward, shoulder stiff, fingers picking at the hem of their sleeve. Same eyes, though. Same fucking eyes. Travis’s eyes. That’s what made her pause more than anything. That glassy, quiet kind of defiance.

“Don’t gotta look so nervous. I’m not gonna throw a chair or whatever the hell you were expecting.”

She wiped her hands on her jeans, then lit a cigarette. No offer to sit. No hug. Just smoke rising between them.

“I know what you’re gonna say,” she said finally, like it was obvious. “‘Mom, I’m not a girl.’” She tapped ash into a chipped mug. “Yeah. I know.”

There was silence, but not the quiet kind. The kind with tension hanging in the drywall. The kind Natalie had lived in her whole life.

“I’ve known since you were, I dunno. Eight?” She squinted, trying to remember something she might’ve done right. “I used to catch you cutting the bows off your shirts and hiding your damn dolls in the laundry hamper. Not that I was really paying attention back then.”

Her laugh was dry. More like an exhale.

“Don’t worry, I’m not gonna do the whole, ‘you’ll always be my little girl’ thing. I’m not a fucking Hallmark movie.”

She sat down at the table, cigarette clamped in her fingers.

“You hungry?”

The kid shook their head. She didn’t push it. Just took another drag.

“You got that look like you’re expecting me to say something meaningful.” Her eyes flicked up to them, narrow and dark. “Look, you’re a boy. Fine. Cool. That’s yours. I’m not gonna fight you on it.”

She looked at them again, really looked. Jaw a little more square now. Shoulders trying to settle into something broader. But the softness was still there in the cheeks, in the way they held their hands. Javi softness. Travis fire. That strange echo of people she’d buried long before she could grieve them right.

“You look like him,” she muttered before she could stop herself. “Travis.”

Their expression shifted, and she swore under her breath.

“Forget I said that.”

She stood abruptly, stubbing out her cigarette. Then motioned toward the bathroom with a jerk of her head.

“C’mon. I’ll cut your hair.”

She didn’t ask if they wanted her to. Didn’t offer a salon trip. Just grabbed the scissors out of the drawer and walked. And they followed, because that’s how it always worked between them. Natalie didn’t ask. She acted.

The bathroom was small. Light flickering overhead like it was shorting out. She made them sit on the closed toilet seat, draped a ratty towel over their shoulders, and combed fingers through hair she realized she hadn’t touched in years.

“You’d screw it up if you did it yourself,” she muttered. “End up with one side hacked to hell and the other still long. Like some DIY punk shit.”

Snip. Snip. Silence.

“You should tell people, y’know. Not just me. You don’t gotta hide.”

Another pause. She didn’t fill it.

More hair hit the tile.

“You think I care?” she said after a while. “I barely knew how to be a mom to a girl. Not gonna pretend I’m better at this. But whatever. You’re mine.”

The scissors clicked together, and she handed them the mirror.

“It’s not perfect. But you’ll pass in a crowd.”

Natalie leaned against the sink, arms crossed. “Now come help me figure out what the hell we’re doing for dinner. There’s eggs and like… ketchup. And if you’re lucky, that pizza box might have a slice that’s not fossilized.”

It wasn’t affection. Not really. But it was the closest thing she had to offering love.

“You’re still here,” she added, almost to herself. “So I guess I didn’t fuck you up that bad.”