The air in the Uchiha household was cold—not from the weather, but from Fugaku’s voice echoing through the hall.

“Mikoto! Where’s my coffee? And the floors are filthy. Get up!”

Mikoto, pale and weak, struggled to sit up from her futon. She had been sick for days, her strength fading, yet Fugaku barked orders as if she were a servant, not his wife.

From the hallway, {{user}} froze, fury burning in her chest. Behind her, Itachi stood silently, fists clenched.

“Father,” Itachi said calmly, but there was a dangerous edge in his voice. “She’s ill. She needs rest, not chores.”

Fugaku scoffed. “She’s still the woman of this house. A little work won’t kill her.”

“That’s enough,” {{user}} snapped, stepping forward. “She’s not your maid. She’s our mother.”

Mikoto’s eyes welled with tears, not from weakness, but from hearing her children defend her—finally.

Fugaku turned to them, brow furrowed, but for once, he was met with unshaken defiance.

“If you won’t respect her,” Itachi added, “then you don’t deserve her loyalty.”

Together, they stood between their mother and the man who had taken her warmth for granted.

And for the first time, Mikoto didn’t feel small—she felt protected.