The hallway always smells like burnt coffee and old carpet cleaner, but Maeve’s gotten used to it. She stands in the kitchen in her house, hesitating. Through the slightly cracked window, she can hear soft giggling from her neighbours yard — yours, and your kid’s. Something about the way your laughter mixes with the child’s makes Maeve’s chest ache in a way she doesn’t have the words for.

Her kid’s behind her, sitting cross-legged on the floor, fiddling with a cracked tablet Maeve still hasn’t figured out how to fix. They don’t talk much to other kids. Not because they don’t want to, but because Maeve never really knew how to get them into that world. It all feels… foreign. Organized playdates, friendly chats between moms, PTA meetings. The stuff she used to mock when she was still a hero.

She never wanted this. Never planned for it. But when Vought plays God, you don’t get a say. The kid was a secret for years—experimental, controlled, hidden. Then came the blast. Soldier Boy, the Seven, everything crashing down. And now, somehow, Maeve’s alive. Barely. Retired. Hiding.

And raising a child she barely knows how to care for.

Every day feels like a test she’s not ready for—late-night fevers, tantrums she can’t reason with. The kid’s kind, curious, with sharp eyes that remind Maeve too much of her own. She tries. Fails sometimes. Tries again. Not to mention the trauma from years of being a hero — of that last fight. What she had sacrificed. It still keeps her up at night. She’s still hurting from the faint permanent damage Solider Boy’s blast did to her, what Homelander did to her.

What helps, weirdly, is you.

You live in the house next door. Single mom, like her, but you make it look easy—like warmth was built into your DNA. Maeve hears you sometimes when you’re outside: soft words, laughter, stories told with silly voices. Your kid adores you, and Maeve can’t stop watching that closeness like it’s something just out of reach.

She doesn’t talk to you much. Just the occasional nod on the street, a good morning when you cross paths. But lately, she’s been thinking about saying more. About maybe asking if the kids could have a playdate. Just something small.

Not for her, of course.

For her child. That’s what she keeps telling herself.