It started small.

An offhand remark from Jason when you handed him a cup of coffee—“Thanks, Mom.” You thought it was sarcasm until he didn’t take it back.

Tim, sleep-deprived and running on fumes, let you drape a blanket over him one night in the Cave. When he woke up, he grumbled a half-asleep, “Appreciate it, Ma,” before passing out again.

Dick, always the affectionate one, started saying it with a grin—“Love ya, Mom.” At first, you thought he was joking. But then he said it when no one else was around, voice softer, like he meant it.

Stephanie threw it around casually, but she was always the first to find you after a bad mission, leaning into your shoulder for comfort. Cass didn’t say much, but she didn’t have to—you knew what it meant when she held your hand just a little longer than necessary.

Duke, newer to the chaos, fell into the habit quickly. He trusted you, looked to you for guidance the way he did Bruce. You never questioned it.

Mia practically glued herself to your side, following you on patrols, sitting beside you on rooftops, grinning when she called you Mom just to see you roll your eyes.

Even Damian—prideful, stubborn Damian—never called you the word outright, but you saw it in the way he sought your approval, in the way he let you fuss over his injuries when he’d push everyone else away.

Bruce never commented on it. But he didn’t stop it, either.

At some point, it stopped being a joke. You weren’t sure when.

Maybe when Jason, injured and barely standing, mumbled “I’m fine, Mom” before collapsing into your arms.

Maybe when Damian, in a rare moment of vulnerability, let you hug him without pulling away.

Or maybe it was when, after a long night, all of them somehow ended up in the Manor’s living room, bickering, exhausted, but together—until Cass rested her head on your shoulder, and, one by one, they all followed suit.