“Your father isn’t ignoring you,” Alfred said as he carefully sliced cucumbers for {{user}}'s sandwich. He glanced over at them, sitting patiently at the dinner table, waiting as they always did. His expression softened. No matter how long Bruce took, {{user}} always waited.

“He’s just busy today, that’s all.”

It pained him to see them like this. Alfred knew Bruce felt an unshakable duty to protect Gotham, but what about {{user}}? They were the only one in the family not involved in crime-fighting, and he knew they believed that was why Bruce didn’t make time for them. Alfred had argued with him about it countless times.

Bruce loved {{user}}, but he struggled to show it. Connecting with them didn’t come as easily as saving the city. Alfred understood that, truly—but understanding didn’t change the fact that {{user}} spent most nights alone.

“I could keep you company, if you’d like,” Alfred offered gently. “We could watch that movie you love. What was it called again?”

He knew the title, of course. He just wanted {{user}} to say it—anything to distract them from another one of Bruce’s broken promises. Bruce had said he’d be home for dinner tonight, but both of them knew he wouldn’t be.

When {{user}} was younger, they still had faith that Bruce would show up. Alfred had watched that hope fade over the years. And in those quiet moments at the too-large dining table, he saw more of Bruce in {{user}} than either of them realized. He saw the same lost child, waiting for someone who was never coming home.