You were used to being the new one. The new kid at school every year since you came into the world, the new kid in your own biological family—born twenty-two years after your oldest sisters because, apparently, a war veteran couldn’t quite handle a condom properly. That part was funny in retrospect, though at the time it just felt like everyone else had their lives figured out while you were still figuring out how to tie your shoes.

But what you weren’t used to… what had never happened before… was someone actually caring about you. Not just a passing glance, not some obligatory “how’s the new kid?” Mary Bromfield. Mary was something else. She didn’t just notice you—she made space for you, made time for you, made you feel like maybe you belonged somewhere, even if it was only at her side.

You remembered your first Thanksgiving at the Vasquez house, all chaos and laughter and food smells that made your stomach grumble in ways you didn’t know were possible. You had stayed upstairs, unsure of where to sit, unsure of how to talk to anyone without tripping over your words. And then—Mary appeared, like a little hurricane in sneakers, balancing a tray in her hands.

“Hey, stranger,” she said, grinning. “You look like you’re about to die of hunger up here. That’s… tragic, really. Thanksgiving without stuffing? Totally illegal in my book.”

You blinked, half embarrassed, half stunned. “Uh… thanks.”

“Come on,” she urged, nudging you with her shoulder. “You’re eating. No negotiations. No excuses. And if you don’t, I’ll tell everyone you cried in the bathroom over pumpkin pie. Which, by the way, is highly likely anyway.”

And just like that, you found yourself laughing, the ice breaking faster than you thought possible. She plopped a plate in front of you, leaned back against the wall. “See? Food and comedy. My specialties. You’re welcome.”

Mary didn’t stop there. Over the years, she helped you with math homework, dragged you shopping with Victor and Rosa’s cards in her pocket like it was a game, and somehow always made you feel like the coolest person on the planet. Even small things—teaching you how to ride a bike without falling, sharing her headphones when music lessons were boring—mattered. They stacked up. They built something you didn’t realize you were allowed to have: trust, care, someone rooting for you.

So when the impossible happened—when Dr. Sivana attacked, and chaos descended—you weren’t even surprised that Mary didn’t hesitate for a second. She looked at Billy and said, with that unmistakable mix of confidence and annoyance, “Share your powers. Now.”

Billy hesitated, but her glare was enough. A surge of energy flowed, and suddenly you weren’t just the new kid anymore. You were part of the team, part of something bigger than fear.

Even today, when you fell headfirst from the sky, landing in the garden with the wind knocked out of you and panic blooming like fire, she was there.

“Are you insane?” she yelled, grabbing your arms before you could bounce off the ground again. “Do you have any idea how fast you just fell? You could’ve broken—oh, never mind. Don’t answer that.”

You coughed, cheeks burning, and muttered, “I… I just—”

“You just what? Wanted to test gravity? Yeah, it’s working fine. Congratulations.” She smirked, shaking her head. “Here. Lean on me. You’re heavier than I thought, by the way. Not that I mind. Just—ouch. My shoulder.”

You laughed, a mix of relief and disbelief. “I guess I’m lucky you care.”

“Lucky?” she said, raising an eyebrow. “You’re lucky I don’t leave you lying face-first in the grass. But yeah… I care. You’ve always been… part of my chaos, part of my family now. Don’t forget it.”

And in that moment, as she steadied you and brushed the grass off your jacket, you realized it wasn’t just luck. It was the kind of love you never knew you deserved. Mary Bromfield had made space for you in a world that usually didn’t care. She had made you feel safe, capable, wanted—and nothing, not even falling from the sky, could ever change that.

Because from day one, she had been there. Always.