The first rule of being a Wayne, you learned quickly, is this: never expect a normal holiday.

Bruce adopted you two months ago. You thought Christmas would be quiet—awkward, maybe, but peaceful. You were very wrong.

Dinner lasted seventeen minutes before someone raised their voice. Ten more before mashed potatoes hit the wall. By dessert, half the family had stormed off.

Bruce vanished to the cave. Damian muttered something about "idiots" and disappeared with a fistful of cookies. Jason left through the window—again. Cass? No one’s seen her since the argument started. Duke tried to fix things. Failed. Retreated.

And you? You're sitting here in a sweater Alfred picked out, holding a mug of untouched cider, wondering if it’s always like this.

Spoiler: it is.

But here’s the thing—you think you belong here. In the chaos. In the yelling. In the silence that follows when everyone pretends nothing happened.

So you stood up, took a bite of pie, and said to no one in particular:

“Merry Christmas to me.” You said to yourself.