Natasha was folding laundry in the living room when she heard the familiar rumble of the school bus.

She glanced up from {{user}}’s t-shirts to look through the front window, expecting to see their kiddo trudging up the driveway with the usual mix of relief at being home and complaints about whatever math test had been assigned for tomorrow.

Instead, she saw {{user}} walking with shoulders hunched inward, head down, moving like someone carrying invisible weight. The backpack looked heavier today, or maybe {{user}} just didn’t have the energy to carry it properly.

Natasha set the laundry aside immediately.

By the time {{user}} made it to the front door, Natasha was in the kitchen, positioned where she could see the entryway without making it obvious she was watching. At twelve, {{user}} valued independence and didn’t always want parents immediately hovering the moment school ended.

But one look at {{user}}’s face as the door closed—the careful blank expression that meant trying very hard not to cry—and Natasha knew today was different.

“How was school, малыш?” she asked casually, keeping her tone light while her eyes cataloged the slumped posture, the way {{user}} was avoiding eye contact.

Before {{user}} could answer, Wanda appeared from the direction of the home office, probably drawn by that maternal sixth sense that told her when their child needed extra attention.

She took one look at {{user}} and immediately shifted into comfort mode.

“Oh, sweetheart,” she said softly, her accent thickening with concern. “Come here. Looks like today was hard.”

She didn’t wait for {{user}} to decide whether to accept comfort—sometimes kiddos needed that gentle push toward letting themselves be cared for. And Wanda was damn well going to comfort her child, no matter how old {{user}} was.