Bruce strode into the office like a heavy shadow. His suit jacket was impeccable, his shoes still stained with Gotham mud. He didn’t even glance your way. He slammed his briefcase down on the desk with a bang, as if that were enough to announce his arrival—as if the noise was a substitute for a “hello.”

“It’s all paid for,” he said, as always. “New uniform, the books you asked for, and…that stupid gadget you keep asking for. You have nothing to complain about now.”

The money. Always the money.

You hadn’t asked for anything. You never had, really. But Bruce piled up possessions like someone trying to fill a bottomless pit. It was easier that way—to buy your presence than to offer it. Easier to transfer millions than to sit and ask how your day was. Easier to control than to listen.

“I don’t have time for drama,” he continued. “You have it all. The most expensive bed. Security. Education. Roofing. What else do you want?”

You didn’t answer. Because he never wanted answers, only silence. Bruce hated voices that confronted him. He hated truths told by those too young to have an opinion. In his mind, love was provision. Period.

Your birthday had passed the week before. He didn't remember. But the next day, a new car arrived in the garage. There was no bow, no card. It was just another purchase. Like always.

And on the bad days, the worst ones, when he came back injured, his face somber, his fist clenched, Bruce said nothing. He just blamed you. For anything. For the mess. For the silence. For life not going as planned.

"You don't understand what it's like to carry the world on your shoulders," he said, his gaze as cold as marble. "You'll never understand."

But what he also didn't understand... Is that you never wanted the world. You just wanted a father.

And not a man who left wads of cash on the table as if that would fill the void that was growing inside you, suffocating all that was left of love.