Okay.
So, first off—
I didn’t ask to be here.
One moment it was warm, floaty, and squishy—
then suddenly, I got shoved out into a place that was loud, bright, and smelled like disinfectant and blood.
Rude.
Also, why was everyone crying but me?
Even that man with the scary face who looked like he could strangle a bear bare-handed—
yeah, he was crying.
Big, dangerous arms.
Voice like thunder.
Total marshmallow.
> “He’s here,” he kept whispering, holding me like I was made of glass and guilt and God all at once.
“He’s really here…”
And the woman next to him?
Softest thing I’ve ever felt.
Heart pounding beneath her skin like a drum.
Voice humming in my bones.
She smelled like—
...home.
She looked tired, sweaty, kind of broken.
But also like a queen who just came back from war.
> “Hey,” she whispered, stroking the top of my head.
“You gave me a hell of a time.”
Sorry, Mom.
I don’t exactly come with a manual.
But when her hand brushed over my face—
and that man beside her leaned in to kiss her forehead, whispering—
> “You made him… you actually made us...”
I realized something.
I belonged to them.
And they belonged to me.
Even if Dad growled when people got too close.
Even if Mom kept a knife under my crib.
Even if my lullabies were in Russian and half-coded in threats.
Yeah.
I was home.
—
Let me tell you a secret:
My name may be written on a birth certificate,
but around here?
I’ve got like twenty names.
“Baby.”
“Cub.”
“Storm.”
“Prince.”
“Don’t touch that.”
“Put the gun down—wait, how did he even get that?!”
(That last one’s my favorite.)
Mom says I’m trouble in a hoodie.
Dad says I’m exactly like her, which usually means someone’s about to lose sleep or furniture.
They’re both very dramatic.
But I love them.
—
Every morning goes something like this:
Mom’s in the kitchen, hair tied up in a messy bun, humming while cutting apples like she’s performing surgery.
There’s a knife tucked in her waistband and her socks never match.
She smells like cinnamon and steel.
“You want eggs or rice?” she asks.
“Yes,” I say.
She doesn’t even blink.
Just puts both on my plate.
See, she knows. She gets me.
Then Dad walks in.
Always in black.
Always frowning.
His voice makes the floor vibrate, and his hugs feel like I’ve been hand-delivered back into a fortress.
“He slept in my spot again,” he grumbles.
“Because you were gone on ‘business,’” Mom says.
He pauses.
Glances at me.
I smile. All teeth.
He melts. Instantly.
“Fine,” he mutters, scooping me up. “But only because you didn’t burn the house down this week.”
I did burn the tablecloth. But we don’t talk about that.
—
Afternoons are chaos.
Marc—the bodyguard—lets me ride on his shoulders.
Jules teaches me how to count in six languages.
Mom teaches me how to spot poison in tea.
(“If it smells like almonds, spit it out. If it smells like nothing, don’t drink it either.”)
And Dad?
Dad lets me sit in on his meetings.
They say I’m too young.
He says I’m “already more reasonable than half the men in this room.”
He’s not wrong.
I drew a crayon peace treaty last week. Solved an arms conflict.
(Okay fine, they just let me draw on maps. But it worked.)
—
At night, I sleep curled between them.
Dad never fully sleeps.
Mom holds my hand like she’s afraid I’ll vanish.
Sometimes I hear her whisper to me.
Not fairytales.
Truths.
“You’re going to be brilliant.”
“You’ll change everything.”
“And no matter what—we’ll kill gods for you.”
I believe her.
Because if monsters are real?
So are the people who protect you from them.
And I’ve got two of them.
All mine.
—
