Chapter Text
Ever since she could talk, Jesse Rollins had been told she was a carbon copy of her mother. The same eyes, same mouth, same stubborn line to her jaw. When her mother would take her into the precinct, coworkers would smile. They knew who Amanda was, and therefore by default, who Jesse was too. With Billie and Nicky it was more subtle, but Jesse - she was her mother through and through. But looks were where the similarities ended.
Where Amanda fills a room without trying to, Jesse would shrink herself inside it. Where Amanda speaks with certainty, voice level and sure and sometimes a little too loud, Jesse would measure every word. Amanda’s calm under pressure, runs towards chaos for a living. Jesse braces for it in the quiet, long before it ever arrives.
Yet still, Amanda could read her daughter like no-one else. The way her shoulders rise when someone says her name a little too loudly. The way she twists her fingers together when she’s overwhelmed. The silence that settles over her when anxiety gets heavy, when even breathing feels wrong.
Amanda never pushes.
Instead, she adjusts. Slows her steps to match Jesse’s. Lowers her voice without thinking. Positions herself just slightly in front in crowded places, and reaches her hand back. A quiet, subtle, “I’m here”.
At night, when the anxiety won’t let her sleep, Jesse pads down the hallway barefoot like clockwork. She never has to knock - Amanda always leaves the door open. Even when Sonny moved in, when he became their dad, the space in their bedroom for Jesse always remained. He knew just as well as Amanda that she wasn’t the same brazen, fearless child that Billie was, that she needed the extra comfort. They never said anything about it, they just adjusted. They don’t ask questions. Amanda just lifts the covers, arms opening, and Jesse curls into her like she’s five rather than going on fifteen. No one mentions it in the morning, almost as if the darkness provides a level of comfort to the moment that daylight leaves raw and exposed, but it’s been a routine for years now.
Jesse had always been quiet, that part was never new. In teacher-parent conferences, or on report cards, it was mentioned almost as a fact. Polite, reserved, keeps to herself. Amanda would smile and nod, finding the stark contrast between her two daughters almost amusing. Billie was constantly in trouble for talking, and Amanda couldn’t find it within herself to chastise her younger daughter, having been the exact same when she was a child.
However, quiet had turned into tears in the mornings, stomach aches with no explanations, and in the stretch between elementary and middle school, an anxiety diagnosis. The hallways got bigger, the rules got harsher, and suddenly Jesse wasn’t just quiet anymore. She was scared. Everything felt like it mattered too much, like her lungs were caving in.
After yet another morning where she had cried herself sick behind the school building and begged her mother to pick her up through strangled gasps, Amanda had taken her to see a therapist. The diagnosis came relatively quickly after that, and Jesse had looked up at her mother one afternoon after she’d fallen asleep in the car on the way back from the therapist’s office with swollen, puffy eyes, and asked, “Mommy, is there something wrong with me?”
Amanda’s heart had broken at that, and she’d swallowed roughly a few times before answering. “No baby,” she’d said, reaching over to take one of Jesse’s hands in her own. “There’s nothing wrong with you. Sometimes we just need a little help learning how to process the things that scare us. And asking for that help, it makes you strong.” She’d placed a kiss on Jesse’s knuckles before turning her attention back to the road, blinking back the tears stinging her eyes.
After that, things had improved. Jesse was still quiet, but she’d laugh at home, play games with her siblings and curl into her parents’ bed when things were loud.
That’s why Amanda noticed the change.
It was subtle at first. The way Jesse would hesitate before answering questions she used to answer without thinking. The way she’d tug at her sleeves, like she was trying to disappear into them. How she’d start asking “Is this okay?” about things that never needed permission before. However, she didn’t look anxious in the way Amanda had trained herself to spot. There was no pacing or shaking or hyperventilating on the bathroom floor. Jesse just looked… smaller.
One night Amanda caught her in the hallway mirror, frozen. Jesse hadn’t noticed at first, just staring at her reflection with this tight, distant expression that had made Amanda’s stomach drop.
“Hey,” Amanda had said softly.
Jesse had flinched. Just a little, but Amanda noticed none-the-less.
She’d kept her voice gentle, non-threatening. “What’s going on, baby?”
Jesse had shrugged too quickly. “Nothing.”
Jesse’s friend group had never been big - that was the point of it. Just a few people, familiar voices, inside jokes that didn’t require explaining. Yet somehow, she could feel it slipping away without anyone ever officially saying so.
It wasn’t dramatic enough to be labelled a thing. No slammed lockers or horrible notes or shouted insults. Nothing that would make a teacher intervene, or make Amanda immediately see red. It was smaller than that. Sharper, almost. Comments dropped into conversation.
“Oh my god, why are you so sensitive?”
“We were joking, relax.”
“You’re overthinking it. Again.”
She found they’d started to talk over her now. Or worse - they’d pause when she’d speak, exchange looks, then gently correct her like she was some child who misunderstood something obvious.
She started to feel stupid for opening her mouth at all.
Whenever she would disagree, even politely, it turned into something. A debate she didn’t ask for. Everyone suddenly playing devil’s advocate against her, no matter how harmless her opinion was. Someone being “mad”, whether it be for not replying fast enough, for cancelling plans or for Jesse existing in a way that didn’t orbit their moods. At school she found herself sitting in the cafeteria replaying the conversation she’d had with her friends in third period, where they’d rolled their eyes when she’d hesitated, exchanged inside jokes she didn’t understand, and then walked off together, leaving Jesse packing up her things and pretending like her eyes weren’t stinging.
So, she started shrinking.
She stopped bringing things up in the groupchats. She laughed when something hurts, because that seemed safer than letting it show. She catalogued everything she’d done wrong, and vowed not to do it again.
At home, Amanda and Sonny had noticed she was quieter. Amanda had quickly clocked the way Jesse spent more time in her room, but told herself that Jesse was simply a teenager, and that it was normal. However, one night, Amanda still found herself hovering outside Jesse’s bedroom door. She almost knocked, then paused, trusting Jesse would come to her if she needed to.
Jesse didn’t. Instead, she curled up under her blanket, hugging her knees, telling herself to just be better tomorrow. Quieter. Easier. Less.
No one ever says anything to her directly. Everything comes filtered through someone else’s mouth, warped just enough that she’s never quite sure what’s real.
“So-and-so’s kind of mad at you.”
“But it’s fine. Don’t worry about it.”
“I mean, she didn’t say that, but you know how she is.”
Jesse nods. She always nods. Even when her stomach drops.
By the end of the day, she’s heard five different versions of the same story. Each one contradicts the last. Someone would reassure her in private, then she’d catch them laughing with the person who’s supposedly upset. Opinions change depending on who’s in the room. Loyalties shift mid-sentence.
She never knows which version of her they’re talking about. She listens quietly while they tear each other apart, her chest tight, because she knows they talk about her the same way when she’s not there.
Sometimes they do it when she is there.
“She’s just really sensitive lately.”
“I don’t know why she takes everything so personally.”
“I mean, I wouldn’t act like that, but that’s just me.”
They say it casually. Like she’s not sitting right there, trying not to disappear. Like every message notification doesn’t make her heart spike with the same fear of what did I do now? She finds herself apologising constantly - for tone, for timing, for things she’s not even sure happened. Every day a cycle of the same thing, every word measured out, every reaction practiced.
One evening, after Billie has rushed off to watch cartoons and Sonny has taken Nicky to be changed, Amanda and Jesse are left at the dinner table. Jesse sits quietly, pushing the food around her plate, staring intensely at the table. Amanda watches over the rim of her glass, clocking the tenseness in Jesse’s shoulders, the way she flinches when her phone lights up.
“Everything okay, baby?” Amanda asks gently, studying her eldest daughter. “You seem…” She pauses, searching for the right word. “Worn down. Quieter than usual.”
Jesse shrugs, her eyes fixed on her plate. “It’s just people stuff.”
Amanda nods slowly. “People stuff can be heavy.”
Jesse just shrugs again, lowering her fork and pushing out of her chair. “I’m going to go and shower.” She says, fiddling with her sleeve. “Thanks for dinner mom.”
Amanda sighs softly. “It’s okay baby.” She replies, the concern evident in her voice as she picks up Jesse’s half full plate and takes it to the sink. “Jess?” She calls out, just as her daughter goes to leave the room.
Jesse pauses and looks up. “Yes?”
“You know you can tell me anything, right?” Amanda offers, not expecting an answer, just wanting to reassure.
“I know.” Jesse answers a little too quickly, and Amanda’s heart sinks a little further as she listens to the bathroom door shut and the shower turn on.
The doubt doesn’t arrive all at once.
It seeps in slowly, quietly, disguised as self-awareness at first. Reflection. Growth.
Jesse finds herself replaying old conversations, not just the recent ones. Things from years ago. Comments she’d made, advice she’d given. Moments where someone went quiet afterward and she hadn’t noticed at the time.
What if I was never kind?
What if I was just intrusive?
What if people only tolerated me?
The idea roots itself deep and ugly. Maybe she was never a good person. Maybe she just didn’t realize how much damage she was doing.
She starts counting the amount of words she says in a day. She edits texts until they sound empty. She laughs at things that hurt, because reacting starts to feel selfish. She stops sharing opinions entirely, and her chest is tight all the time. Not the same panic she used to feel as a kid when her mom was gone for too long, or when they had a pop quiz in maths. This was a new kind of panic, a constant heavy thrum, bracing for disapproval that feels inevitable.
She finds herself watching people’s faces instead of listening to what they’re saying, tracking their expressions and tones. Any sighs or glances that could mean irritation or judgement. Every neutral reaction begins to feel like confirmation.
At home, Amanda notices it more. She exchanges looks with Sonny across the couch when Jesse doesn’t laugh at Billie’s joke, or when she excuses herself to her room early in the evening when they’d usually be playing a game or watching cartoons. She waits for the right time to bring it up to him, to ask “do you see our daughter disappearing in front of us?”, but the words seem wrong. She wonders if she’s imagining it.
One night she lies in bed, wrapped in Sonny’s arms, his hand placed gently on her stomach rubbing circles with his thumb. They used to struggle to find time to themselves, a life with three children and working for the NYPD never quiet, their nights taken up by Jesse crawling into the bed with silent tears running down her cheeks, gripping onto her mother’s t-shirt with trembling fingers. Recently? Jesse hadn’t come in at all.
Sonny had made the most of those nights at first, listening extensively for any creaks of the floorboard with one hand over Amanda’s mouth, the other roaming places they didn’t often have time to go. Amanda had enjoyed it too, she loved her husband, but the longer they had the bed to themselves, the more worried she had become.
“Sonny?” She asks, listening to the sleepy hum of response into her shoulder. “Do you think something’s wrong with Jesse?”
She feels him tense slightly, craning his neck to look at her in the dark. “What do you mean?”
“She’s not come in during the night for a while. She just seems…quieter?” Even Amanda hears the hesitation in her own voice. Saying it out loud makes the concern seem irrational.
“That’s a good thing Manda.” He reassures softly, reaching out and tucking her hair behind her ear. “We’ll always be here for her, but if she’s learning to handle her anxiety on her own it shows she’s making progress. She can’t stay wrapped up in our arms forever.”
“No I know that, but- I just-, I don’t know Sonny. Something just feels wrong.”
“I think you’re just so used to protecting her that you forget she’s growing up.” He says, pulling her back into his arms and closing his eyes. “My sisters went through phases like this too. She’s a teenager, it happens. We’ll keep an eye on her.”
Amanda swallows the discomfort and tries to relax. “Yeah, I guess. Maybe you’re right. She’ll just always be my baby. I look at her and still see the terrified little 7 year old clinging onto my hand and begging me not to make her go to school.”
“You love her.” Sonny replies, stifling a yawn. “She’s your kid. You always will. She’s just growing.”
Despite the reassurance, Amanda couldn’t sleep. She could feel Sonny’s grip on her go lax, his breathing evening out slowly. She could hear the tick of the alarm clock as it neared closer to morning. She knew Sonny had a point, that teenagers do change, but she just couldn’t shake the feeling that something was wrong.
Over the next few days, she tried everything that she’d learnt in her many years of parenting. Casual check-ins, soft jokes, even leaving early from work one day to pick Jesse up from school and take her for coffee, for “mother-daughter time” outside of the craziness of the house. One night, she finds Jesse standing in the kitchen, her shoulders rigid, her breathing shallow as she stares down at her phone.
“Hey,” Amanda says quietly, placing a hand gently on the small of her daughter’s back. “What’s going on?”
Jesse jumps, shame flooding her face immediately as she slams the phone face-down on the counter. “Nothing. Sorry. I didn’t mean to be weird.”
That stops Amanda cold.
“You never need to apologise for existing.” She says gently, placing her hands on Jesse’s arms and turning her to face her.
Jesse nods too fast. “I know. I just.. Yeah. Sorry.”
“Let’s go sit down, baby.” Amanda replies softly, guiding them towards the couch, pulling Jesse into her arms and placing a blanket around the pair of them. For a while they sit in silence, Amanda rocking her softly from side to side as she places the occasional kiss into Jesse’s hair. “You seem scared.” She says eventually, frowning as Jesse stiffens in her embrace.
“I’m not.”
Amanda nods, accepting the answer but not wanting to let it go. “Okay. Then you seem like you’re carrying something heavy by yourself.”
Silence stretches throughout the room, but Amanda waits. She feels the slight tremors running through her daughter's frame, followed by a soft muffled sniffle. “Oh baby.” She cooes, pulling the young girl into her chest, holding her tightly. “It’s okay, hm? I’m here. I’m not going anywhere.”
Jesse clings to her. “I’m scared all the time.” She sobs, finally letting the truth surface. “I’m scared everyone hates me and I just don’t know it yet.”
Amanda closes her eyes, running a hand through Jesse’s hair. “You are living in fear,” she murmurs into her hair. “And fear lies.”
Jesse just shakes her head, crying harder. Amanda softens, knowing this isn’t the time for grand speeches or promises. She hasn’t held her daughter properly for weeks. Everything else can be fixed or talked through tomorrow, but for now? Now, she just wants to give the comfort Jesse had deprived herself of. And as she holds her, one thing is painfully clear to Amanda now,
This isn’t just shyness. It isn’t normal anxiety. It is her kid learning that taking up space is wrong, that her presence is wrong. And Amanda knows one thing for certain - she would burn the whole world down before she lets that belief take root any further.