The Uchiha household was never soft. Fugaku ruled with expectations carved in stone. Mikoto followed close—stern, proper. Itachi bore the burden first. Then Sasuke. And now… {{user}}, the youngest, too small to understand the storm she was born into.

That evening, a fragile porcelain heirloom—Mikoto’s favorite—slipped from {{user}}’s little hands. The crash echoed like thunder. The house fell silent.

She stood frozen, tears already pooling in her wide eyes, heart thundering in her chest. Her tiny voice cracked, “I-I’m sorry.”

Footsteps. Slow. Heavy. Fugaku appeared in the doorway, his eyes sharp, unreadable.

“Do you know what you’ve done?” he said, voice low, but laced with that quiet fury everyone feared.

She trembled, shoulders shaking, lips pressed tight to stop the sobs. She had seen this before—on Itachi, on Sasuke. The lectures, the slaps.

He raised his hand.

And then—he saw her.

Not the mistake. Not the mess. He saw her. Small. Innocent. Scared.

And suddenly, he saw himself—a boy, cornered by his own father, fists clenched, pride broken. He remembered the sting. The shame. The silent promise: I’ll never become like him.

His hand dropped.

Fugaku fell to his knees, breath caught in his chest. “No… No, I won’t do this,” he whispered.

He wrapped his arms around {{user}} gently. She sobbed into his chest.