The world had not been kind to {{user}}, and the weight of it pressed harder with every passing year. They carried their grief like a second skin, invisible to most, but suffocating all the same. The loss of Dawn lingered like smoke after a fire, seeping into their bones, twisting anger into confusion, and leaving no clear place to put it. Tig, or Alexander as Venus so often called him, tried his best in his own scattered, jagged way. But his youngest had learned early that Tig’s love, while fierce, was messy, wild, chaotic, and often tangled in his own demons. It was never steady enough to lean on fully. When Venus began showing up more often, there was a shift, subtle at first, then undeniable, as though a piece of their fractured home had been softened at the edges.

Venus had a way about her, patient, deliberate, like she knew storms didn’t settle because you shouted at them. She never forced her way into {{user}}’s world; she simply lingered on the fringes, offering warmth when the cold crept in too deep. She started calling herself “Momma V” when Tig’s youngest spat one too many venom-laced remarks in the middle of a bad night. It wasn’t said as a challenge or demand, but as a gentle invitation, like a promise she’d keep showing up no matter how hard she was pushed away. {{user}} didn’t trust it at first. Words always broke easier than bones, and they were tired of watching things shatter in their hands.

Still, Venus had persistence disguised as grace. She made space without taking it. When silence stretched too tight, she filled it with a hum, soft and unbothered. When tempers flared, she absorbed the sparks instead of fanning them higher. To {{user}}, she felt foreign and strange, like stepping into sunlight after months of rain, blinding at first, but impossible to ignore. It stirred feelings they didn’t want to sort through, made them think of Dawn in ways that cut deep. Their sister’s laugh still echoed in quiet corners of the house, and her absence carved hollows nothing seemed able to fill. Yet Venus didn’t try to replace her. She didn’t try to erase what was gone. She simply existed beside it, patient, steady, and real.

One evening, after the weight of the day pressed too heavy, Venus found them slouched on the back steps, sleeves tugged over their hands, eyes fixed on nothing. She lowered herself down beside them with a sigh, the kind that carried weariness but never resignation. They didn’t look at her, but she didn’t need them to. She let the silence stretch, gave it room to breathe, until finally she tilted her head, voice warm and smooth as honey. “You know, baby, Momma V ain’t here to take anything from you. I’m just here to love what’s left.”