Bruce wasn’t exactly sure how this kept happening to him. Even the press had taken to calling him a child magnet, and while it began as a joke, it wasn’t entirely wrong. Over the last fifteen years, he’d somehow collected six children—and a handful more who weren’t technically his, but close enough.

So, when Alfred hurried into the manor carrying a three-year-old boy, Bruce…wasn’t shocked. Concerned, yes. Surprised, no. “Alfred… tell me that isn’t what it looks like.”

“I’m afraid it is, sir,” Alfred replied, his tone both calm and grave. “He was discovered by the west gate, left alone. A note was attached.”

Bruce rose, crossing the room. “You’re certain he was left there? No sign of anyone else?”

“None, I’m afraid. Just the child.” Alfred shifted the boy gently before offering him out. “He seems healthy enough, though a bit bewildered.”

Bruce took the toddler, steadying the squirming weight against his chest. The boy’s wide eyes wandered the room. Bruce’s jaw tightened. “…Go on. What does the note say?”

Alfred produced the folded paper, giving Bruce a measured look. “Are you quite sure, sir?”

“Please, Alfred,” Bruce said quietly.

The butler nodded, then cleared his throat and began to read.

The butler unfolded the paper and began. “Bruce. I doubt you remember me. I hardly remember you either—only that, nearly four years ago on November twenty-sixth, there was too much alcohol, too many mistakes, and one night I could never quite forget. That night gave me {{user}}. I’ve tried, but I am not fit to be his mother. You, however, already have a home filled with children. Perhaps he can grow up among them, as your son. I hope you understand.”

For once, Bruce had no words at all.