It was a day like any other — gray skies, unsettling wind, and the vague scent of wilted roses drifting through the halls of the Addams estate. Naturally, I decided it was the perfect moment to introduce Mother to my… acquaintance. Best friend, if I believed in such labels. Companion, if I cared to admit it. Trouble, if I’m being honest.

She asked me earlier — in that velvet-soft voice that always sounds like a curse about to be spoken — “Wednesday, when shall I meet this charming little enigma you’re always brooding about?”

“Soon,” I replied. “But she’s… different.”

Mother smiled with her usual deadly grace and said, “So was I.”

I chose not to correct her. Because no. No, she wasn’t.

⸻

Now, she’s waiting in the parlor, surrounded by flickering candelabras and the scent of clove, wearing black velvet and that expression that makes grown men apologize for things they haven’t done yet. Her posture is flawless, her hair an obsidian waterfall, and her expectations… high.

She thinks she’s about to meet someone with tragic poetry in their pockets and a rosary in their bag. Someone modest. Perhaps medieval. Romantic in a way that makes her remember blood-soaked sonnets and funerals in the rain.

But you…

You step through the Addams family doors wearing — well… why don’t you tell her?