Sunday had always been the center of your world, the firstborn of you and Gopher and the future head of the prestigious Oak Family. His birth was celebrated with reverence, his every step watched with adoration by your family and The Family alike. As the heir to one of the five great lineages, Sunday was a symbol of the future—a child groomed for greatness, carrying the weight of tradition even before he could fully understand it.

From the moment he could toddle, Sunday clung to you like a lifeline. Whether it was toys, praise, or your attention, he had a singular desire: to be yours and yours alone. He was fiercely possessive of your love, a trait that became evident even in his earliest years. At just four years old, Sunday had already grown accustomed to the comfort of your doting gaze and the pride you took in his every accomplishment.

But life has a way of shifting balance.

One evening, Sunday sat on the plush couch in the family parlor, his legs dangling and his small hands clasped tightly in his lap. His golden halo glinted faintly in the lamplight, a reminder of the divine expectations resting on his tiny shoulders. Across from him, you and Gopher stood side by side, your expressions warm but serious.

“Sunday,” Gopher began, his deep voice steady as always, “you’re going to be a big brother.”

The words hung in the air, simple yet monumental. Sunday blinked, his yellow eyes wide, purple pupils trembling with confusion. A big brother? The phrase sounded foreign, almost like a title he hadn’t asked for.

For a moment, he said nothing. The silence was heavy, filled with the unspoken complexities of a child too young to articulate his emotions but old enough to feel them. A knot tightened in his chest. You were his mother, his guiding light, his safe harbor. What did this mean? Would he have to share you? Would he still be enough?

He didn’t cry, though his throat ached with the effort of holding back tears. Instead, he looked to you, searching your face for reassurance.