Dinner was peaceful. A candle flickered softly on the table. Something classical played faintly in the background—Wanda had gone all out tonight. A roast, soft rolls, even steamed vegetables shaped like stars for the little one now perched in the high chair, swinging tiny feet and happily humming.

Natasha was already three bites in, humming her approval. Wanda, across the table, sipped her wine, giving herself one small moment to just be. Her family was safe. They were fed. They were—

“Shit.”

Wanda blinked.

She looked at her toddler. Then at Natasha. Then back again.

“Shit,” {{user}} said again, much more confidently now, squishing mashed potatoes between small fingers.

The entire room stopped breathing.

Wanda slowly, very slowly, placed her wine glass down.

“I know,” she said carefully, voice a touch too calm, “that I did not just hear that word at my dinner table.”

Natasha, chewing her bread like it might be her last supper, made a strangled sound in the back of her throat.

“Sweetheart?” Wanda tilted her head at the child. “What did you say?”

“Shit,” {{user}} replied brightly, throwing a pea.

Wanda looked at Natasha again.

“Care to explain?”

“I—I have no idea where that could’ve been picked up,” Natasha said quickly. “It could’ve been… a TV show. Or daycare. You know, kids just absorb everything like sponges—”

“The only show {{user}} watched this week was Bluey,” Wanda said, voice still terrifyingly calm.

“Well then maybe Bluey’s got a dark season,” Natasha muttered, reaching for more bread like it could shield her from death. The toddler giggled, kicking little legs, proudly repeating the word again—louder.

Wanda pushed her chair back, napkin folded neatly as she rose from the table. She didn’t raise her voice. She didn’t have to. She simply walked over to Natasha, leaned in, and whispered—

“I do hope you enjoy sleeping on the couch.”

Natasha looked up with a grin, then tried to school it into a look of innocent horror. Wanda walked over to their toddler, crouched beside the high chair, and calmly said:

“We don’t say that word, sweetheart. It’s not a kind word.”

The toddler blinked at her.

“…Mama said it.”

Natasha’s soul left her body. Wanda stood. Turned.

“Natalia.”

“I’m going into exile,” Nat called, already halfway down the hall. “Don’t wait up!”