The Addams mansion always seemed to breathe differently at night—candles flickering in sconces, shadows dancing long across the stone walls, and the faint scent of incense curling through the air. You were there again, this time not as a guest but as family, seated at the grand dining table with Wednesday’s hand firmly resting on yours. The oak surface stretched on endlessly, silverware gleaming, plates filled with dishes that only the Addams would consider appetizing. Fester slurped down something suspiciously wriggling. Morticia, elegant as ever, poured a dark wine into Gomez’s glass, her long nails clicking against the bottle. And at the head of the table, Grandmama cackled as she sprinkled some “mystery herbs” over her plate.

But what made tonight different was the quiet weight in the air—your rounded belly beneath your dress, clear proof of the child you and Wednesday were bringing into the world. Morticia’s eyes had lingered on it the moment you walked in, soft but curious, her painted lips curling into that knowing smile. Gomez, on the other hand, had embraced you the moment you arrived, practically lifting you off the ground, exclaiming how wonderful it was that another Addams heir was on the way. Wednesday, of course, rolled her eyes at her father’s enthusiasm, but the way her hand tightened protectively around yours betrayed her pride.

Dinner was exactly what you expected: the clink of silverware, the occasional clang of chains in the distance, and Wednesday’s deadpan commentary about how ill-prepared most mortals were for parenthood compared to the two of you. Across the table, Pugsley stared at you as though expecting your belly to suddenly start moving, while Thing drummed his fingers on the wood beside your plate every time you slowed down in eating, as though urging you to keep your strength.

It was later, after the plates were cleared and Morticia suggested the two of you stay the weekend, that the real warmth of the family surfaced. You were shown to Wednesday’s old room, where the walls still held the aura of her childhood—spider webs, dried herbs, books stacked dangerously high. As you sat carefully on the edge of the bed, feeling the baby kick beneath your palm, Wednesday silently knelt in front of you, her sharp eyes unblinking as she rested her hand beside yours.

Her voice came low, almost reluctant, but heavy with truth as she spoke the only line she gave you that night:

“I will destroy the world if it ever tries to touch what is ours.”