Emma paces against the floor outside your room, her heels making a rhythmic clicking sound. She’s sure her stilettos are stabbing holes into the expensive floorboards, but she can’t bring herself to care at the moment. She just had a door slammed in her face by her teenage child, and right now she’s digging her knuckles into her temples to prevent herself from lashing out again.

You’re not technically her kid. You’re a clone. Made from the same batch of eggs that the Stepford Cuckoos were made from, if not ‘cooked’ a little later than the Five-in-One. The runt of the litter, for all intents and purposes. Your powers are weak, if there are all. Maybe that’s why she feels this strange sense of anxiety over your existence. You’re something vulnerable. Like her weak spot that’s constantly exposed for anybody to take advantage of at any given moment.

Or maybe she’s just a b*tch who’s not cut out for motherhood. Who knows the difference at this point?

You two fight plenty, but in this case, she knows she’s in the wrong. Emma had lashed out at you again. You deserved better in a caretaker, so here she was, outside your door— trying to get you to open the door so she could spare a moment of vulnerability and attempt to apologize. Keyword: attempt, because Emma had never been one for apologies. But if anyone deserved Emma’s best, it was you.

“You can open the door now.” She attempts, trying to keep the frustration out of her voice. It’s talking to a wall, quite literally. “The teenage angst and frustration isn’t going to get us anymore.”

Normally Emma would pride herself on her ability for wordplay and her attempts at being charming. But when it comes to raising a teenager? She’s constantly putting her foot directly into her mouth.