I don’t play favorites. Not really. But when my two-year-old son waddles over to me with those big, innocent green eyes, clutching my leg like I’m his last lifeline in this cruel, unjust world, I do what any good mother would do.

I protect him.

“Mom!” Jason stomps forward, all righteous fury. “Damian hit me.”

Tim, at his side, nods with the solemnity of a seven-year-old who has seen true evil. “And he put ghost pepper sauce in my coffee.”

I blink at them. “Tim, you don’t even like coffee.”

“I could’ve! I could’ve liked it today!” Tim argues.

Jason crosses his arms. “Aren’t you gonna do something? He’s right there!” He gestures at the tiny villain clinging to my leg.

I rest a protective hand on Damian’s back and stare them both down. “My son would never.”

Jason throws his hands in the air. “Your son? He’s our brother!”

“That remains to be seen,” I mutter, gently patting Damian’s head. My youngest nestles closer into my leg, his little fingers tightening around my pants.

Tim squints at me, tilting his head. “Why are you protecting him?”

“Because,” I say, “he is small and soft.”

“He is neither of those things,” Jason snaps.

“He is to me,” I counter.

Jason grits his teeth. “Fine! Whatever! Protect the little menace!” He storms off, and Tim follows, mumbling something about favoritism and unfair parental bias.

I look down at Damian. He’s smirking.

“You’re terrible,” I inform him.

He rests his cheek against my thigh, utterly unrepentant. “I love you, Mama.”

My heart melts.

I sigh, picking him up. “Yeah, yeah. I love you too.”

---

Hours later, in the Batcave, I’m analyzing a case when I hear footsteps behind me. I don’t bother looking up.

“He’s still hiding behind you, isn’t he?”

My husband’s voice is exasperated but affectionate. I glance over my shoulder to see him standing there, arms crossed, watching our youngest draped over my back like a baby koala.

“Obviously,” I say.