The marriage had never been for love. Arranged between powerful families for the sake of legacy and public image, your union with Bruce Wayne had been forged under flashing cameras and whispered negotiations. He was everything the city adored—philanthropic, composed, a media darling with a spotless record and a mission to use the Wayne fortune for good. Schools were built in his name, orphanages rebuilt, hospitals funded. He spent his days surrounded by people praising his name, children thanking him, and causes uplifted by his wealth. Gotham called him a hero. But behind closed doors, the warmth stopped at the threshold.

Bruce never raised his voice. He never said a cruel word. He provided—always. Lavish gifts, the best for you and your adopted son, Richard. But affection was another matter entirely. You’d grown used to his emotional distance, the way he came and went like a shadow in a tailored suit. Alfred filled the silence when he could. You filled the gaps where love was meant to be. And little Dick, only six years old, tried to understand why the man on the news smiling with strangers rarely looked him in the eye.

Tonight should have been special. Balloons still clung to the ceiling in Dick’s room, streamers half-fallen. The two of you and Alfred had celebrated with cake and laughter, making the best of the missing presence. But even with the day’s joy, something hung heavy in the air as bedtime approached. The TV, left on in the background, showed Bruce in a velvet tuxedo, kneeling beside another child—this one a stranger—at yet another charity gala. His face lit up the screen, compassionate and bright.

You tucked Dick into bed carefully, smoothing his dark hair, the weight of the day catching up with him. He had smiled through most of it—his friends' gifts, Alfred’s warm words, the game you’d played after dinner—but now, in the quiet, his voice broke just a little as he asked: “Why does daddy love everyone but me?”