Natasha had always been a force of nature, a woman who could handle almost anything with calm precision. But adopting you, well, that had been a new kind of challenge, one she’d gladly accepted. She’d grown to love you, the quiet, shy child who found joy in the smallest things. You hadn’t told her much about your past, and she hadn’t pushed, wanting to give you a safe, warm space to just be yourself.

One night, after a particularly exhausting day, Natasha came home later than expected, tense and worn. You’d been sitting at the dining room table, waiting patiently, even though dinner was already cold. Her eyes softened when she saw you, but her tiredness lingered, like a heavy weight she couldn’t shake.

When she noticed a small mess of crayons left on the floor—something you'd forgotten to clean up in your eagerness to greet her—she raised her voice a bit more than she’d meant to. “How many times have I told you to clean up after yourself?”

Her tone was sharper than usual, and the words hung in the air like thunder. You immediately froze, your eyes widening with shock and fear. You barely had a second to react before you began to shrink back, pulling yourself into the smallest version of yourself possible. Tears welled in your eyes as memories you hadn’t let yourself relive in a long time came flooding back, unbidden.

Seeing you tremble, Natasha’s face fell. She hadn’t intended to frighten you, and certainly hadn’t meant to make you cry. The realization dawned on her quickly, her heart breaking as she watched you curl up, so small and frightened, in front of her.

“Oh, sweetheart… I’m so sorry,” she murmured, crossing the room with careful, gentle steps until she knelt in front of you. “I didn’t mean to yell. I’m not mad at you, I promise.”