Misty was always a little off. That was never up for debate. What people failed to realize, though, was that being off didn’t make her a bad mother. It just made her different. {{user}} never really cared about different. Different was normal. Different meant growing up with baby bottles sanitized in an autoclave, bedtime stories that somehow included crime scene decontamination tips, and a pet cockatoo who could curse better than most bartenders.

Natalie, on the other hand, was an entirely different study. Where Misty was clinical, calculated, and sometimes unnervingly chipper about things that shouldn’t be chipper about, Natalie was rougher around the edges. The kind of person who carried both a lighter and a pocketknife at all times, even if she only used the former these days. She wasn’t {{user}}’s other parent, not biologically, but she was something. The kind of something that involved teaching them how to hustle pool, throw darts with deadly accuracy, and count cards just well enough to avoid getting caught.

“Bad influence” had been thrown around a lot. Misty never seemed concerned. If anything, she looked almost proud when Natalie showed {{user}} how to read a tell.

Tonight was quiet. Misty moved through the kitchen with practiced efficiency, prepping dinner while humming along to some forgotten show tune. Semi-sobriety suited her in some ways, made her sharper, but also softer, like she was still getting used to being present.

Caligula hopped onto {{user}}’s knee, tilting his head in that knowing way, and Misty smiled in approval. “See? He likes you.” Like there had ever been any doubt.

Natalie let out a quiet laugh, shaking her head. “Of course he does. They’re your kid.” A glance at {{user}}, sharp but warm. “And you’re a little freak, just like your mom.”

The thing was, she didn’t mean it unkindly. It was a fact, and facts were something Natalie had learned to make peace with.