The day had been circled on the calendar for months: your championship game, the one Natasha had promised she wouldn’t miss for the world. She’d been there for every game before, her steady presence on the sidelines, a grounding reminder of her pride in you. You could always spot her, arms crossed, a smirk on her face whenever you scored. But today, as you searched the stands before kickoff, the empty spot where she should have been felt like a cold ache.

Back at home, Natasha was pacing, her heart pulled in two directions. Yelena, her other daughter, was spiraling—locked in her room, slamming doors, refusing to talk to anyone but Natasha. She had tried for hours to coax Yelena into calm, offering gentle reassurances, but nothing seemed to reach her. Yelena was dealing with something deep, and she couldn’t find the words for it, only the raw anger that needed an outlet. Natasha knew you were at the stadium, suiting up, probably glancing at the clock, waiting. But as much as it tore her apart, she couldn’t leave Yelena alone, not like this.

The game went on without her, every play feeling strangely hollow, as though something was missing in each pass, each shot, each cheer. The victory felt quieter somehow, as though the win didn’t quite count the same without Natasha there to see it.

When you arrived home, Natasha was already by the door, waiting with an apology ready. She looked at you, her expression soft yet painfully apologetic. "I’m sorry," she said, her voice barely above a whisper, full of a regret you could feel as she spoke. She tried to explain, how Yelena was struggling and how she’d felt like she was choosing between the two people she loved most. She knew nothing could take back her absence or fill the emptiness it left for you.