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The morning had started perfectly normal.
Tim had woken up to the smell of coffee that Conner had already brewed, the faint sound of Caitlyn's music drifting from her room, and Thomas's excited chatter about a science project due next week. It was Tuesday—an ordinary, unremarkable Tuesday in Jump City. The kind of day that blended into all the other days in the best possible way.
He'd made breakfast while Conner got Thomas dressed. Scrambled eggs, toast, and the last of the strawberries that were just starting to go soft. Caitlyn had stumbled in the kitchen looking half-awake, grabbed a granola bar and her backpack, and mumbled something about early volleyball practice before hugging them both goodbye.
Thomas had been in good spirits—maybe even better than usual. He'd been bouncing in his seat at breakfast, talking a mile a minute about how Carter's moms had invited him over for a playdate this weekend, and how Carter had brought the coolest robot toy to school yesterday, and how maybe—if it was okay with Daddy and Papa—they could build a robot together someday?
"We can definitely look into robotics kits," Tim had promised, ruffling Thomas's curls as he cleared the breakfast plates. "But you have to finish your current projects first. How's that solar system model coming along?"
"Almost done!" Thomas had chirped. "I just need to paint Jupiter's red spot. Did you know that the red spot is actually a giant storm that's been going on for hundreds of years? That's like... so many years, Daddy. That's almost more years than you've been alive."
"Thanks for the reminder that I'm ancient," Tim had said dryly, but he'd been smiling.
Conner had driven Thomas to school that morning—Tim had an early video meeting with Lucius Fox about some new Wayne Tech development that required his input. He'd kissed them both goodbye at the door, watching from the window as Conner helped Thomas into his booster seat, making sure the straps were properly secured in that methodical way that came from years of being hyperaware of how fragile humans could be.
The meeting had run long. It was nearly lunchtime when Tim finally closed his laptop, rubbing his eyes and reaching for the now-cold coffee at his elbow. He'd just been thinking about making a fresh pot when his phone rang.
The caller ID said "Jump City Elementary."
Tim's detective instincts kicked in immediately. Schools didn't call in the middle of the day unless something was wrong. His mind ran through possibilities in rapid succession: Thomas was sick, Thomas was hurt, there'd been some kind of incident—
"Hello?" he answered, already standing up and looking for his keys.
"Mr. Drake?" It was the school secretary, Mrs. Chen. Her voice was carefully professional but strained. "This is Jump City Elementary. I'm calling about Thomas."
Tim's heart rate kicked up. "What happened? Is he hurt?"
"He's... he's alright physically, but there's been an incident. Principal Morrison would like you and Mr. Kent to come to the school as soon as possible. There was an altercation during recess."
An altercation. That was school-speak for a fight.
Thomas had been in a fight.
"We'll be right there," Tim said, already mentally calculating the fastest route. "Fifteen minutes."
He hung up and immediately called Conner, who was at the local community center helping set up for a youth sports program—something he did a few times a week since retiring from active hero work.
"Tim?" Conner answered on the first ring. "What's up? I thought you had meetings all morning—"
"The school called. Thomas got into a fight."
There was a beat of silence. Then: "Thomas? Our Thomas?"
"Yes."
"Are you sure they didn't mean to call someone else? Because Thomas doesn't fight. He cried last week because he accidentally stepped on an ant."
"I know," Tim said, grabbing his jacket. "But apparently he did today. I'm leaving now. Can you meet me there?"
"I'm already on my way," Conner said, and Tim could hear the sound of car keys jingling. "Did they say who he fought with?"
"No. Just that Principal Morrison wants to see us."
"Okay. I'll see you there in ten."
Tim drove faster than he should have, his mind spinning. Thomas wasn't violent. Thomas was sweet and gentle and sensitive. Thomas was the kid who brought injured bugs outside instead of squashing them. Thomas was the kid who'd cried for an hour when Bambi's mother died, and had needed reassurance that no, Daddy and Pops were not going to get shot by hunters.
What could have possibly prompted him to hit someone?
He pulled into the school parking lot at the same time as Conner, who was in their SUV. They met in the middle, Conner's expression mirroring Tim's concern.
"Did you call Cait?" Conner asked as they walked toward the entrance.
"Not yet. Let's figure out what happened first."
The school lobby was quiet, most students in class. Mrs. Chen looked up from her desk as they entered, her expression sympathetic.
"Mr. Drake, Mr. Kent. Principal Morrison is waiting for you in her office. I'll take you back."
They followed her down the familiar hallway, past walls decorated with student artwork and motivational posters. Tim had walked these halls a dozen times before—for parent-teacher conferences, for school events, for that one time Thomas had forgotten his lunch and Tim had to bring it. Those had all been normal visits.
This felt different.
Principal Morrison's office was at the end of the hall. Mrs. Chen knocked once, then opened the door.
"Mr. Drake and Mr. Kent are here," she announced.
"Thank you, Mrs. Chen. Please send in the Barnetts as well."
The Barnetts. That would be Jackson's family.
Tim's stomach sank as he and Conner entered the office. He immediately spotted Thomas sitting in one of the chairs, his small frame hunched, his hands in his lap. Even from the doorway, Tim could see his son's knuckles—red and scraped, already starting to bruise.
"Oh, Tommy," Conner breathed, moving forward instinctively.
—
Tim Drake wouldn't call himself a master escape artist. Sure, he was smart—he knew that he could tackle the most complex challenges with just his brain, could analyze a situation from seventeen different angles before most people even understood there was a problem. But right now, as he sat in the principal's office of his son's elementary school, with his husband on one side and his son on the other—Thomas's knuckles red and raw, sitting adjacent from his mortal enemy of two years, Diane, and her son Jackson, who had a split lip and a bruise blooming across his cheek—Tim wasn't so sure he could claim any title at all except "completely out of his depth."
The office smelled like industrial cleaner and old coffee. The walls were decorated with motivational posters featuring cartoon animals reminding children to "Reach for the Stars!" and "Be Your Best Self!" The irony wasn't lost on Tim—two eight-year-olds had just beaten the crap out of each other, and now they were surrounded by smiling cartoon bears.
Principal Morrison sat behind her desk, her hands folded with the kind of precision that made Tim think of Bruce during a particularly uncomfortable board meeting. She was a woman in her fifties with sharp eyes and graying hair pulled back into a severe bun. Tim had met her twice before—once during Thomas's enrollment and once at a parent-teacher conference where she'd praised Thomas's reading comprehension and his "delightful enthusiasm for learning."
She didn't look delighted now.
"Mr. Drake. Mr. Kent," she began, her voice carrying the weight of someone who'd had this conversation too many times. "I'm sure you're both aware of why we're here."
Tim glanced at Thomas, who was slumped in his chair, his Superman t-shirt wrinkled and his hair a mess. His son's hands were clenched in his lap, those small knuckles scraped and starting to bruise. Thomas wouldn't look at anyone—not at Tim, not at Conner, not at Principal Morrison. He just stared at his sneakers, his jaw set in a way that was painfully reminiscent of Damian mid-interrogation.
Next to Thomas, Conner sat with his arms crossed, his expression carefully neutral. Tim knew that look—it was Conner's "trying very hard not to show emotion" face, which usually meant he was cycling through about fifteen different feelings and wasn't sure which one to land on.
Across from them, Diane sat with the posture of someone who'd been personally victimized by the entire situation. She was impeccably dressed in athleisure that probably cost more than Tim's car payment— which was quite a lot— her blonde hair in a perfect ponytail. Jackson sat next to her, looking miserable and small, an ice pack pressed to his cheek.
"Mrs. Morrison," Diane said, her voice tight. "I think it's quite clear what happened here. Jackson was simply playing during recess when Thomas attacked him unprovoked. My son is the victim here."
Tim felt Conner stiffen beside him. He reached over, placing a calming hand on his husband's thigh—a silent "let me handle this."
"With all due respect," Tim said, his voice measured and professional, "I don't think we know what happened until we've heard from both boys."
Principal Morrison nodded. "I agree. Which is why I've asked you all here." She looked at Jackson first. "Jackson, can you tell us what happened?"
Jackson shifted uncomfortably, the ice pack crackling. "We were just playing, and then Tommy pushed me really hard and started hitting me."
"That's a lie!" Thomas burst out, his first words since they'd arrived. His voice cracked slightly, that particular pitch that meant he was trying very hard not to cry.
"Thomas," Tim said quietly. "Let Jackson finish."
Thomas's mouth snapped shut, but his eyes were blazing.
"Go on, Jackson," Principal Morrison encouraged.
"I... I just said something, and he got really mad," Jackson mumbled.
"What did you say?" Conner asked, and there was an edge to his voice now.
Jackson looked at his mother. Diane's expression was pinched. "I'm sure it was nothing that warranted physical violence."
"Jackson," Principal Morrison said firmly. "What did you say to Thomas?"
The boy squirmed. "I just... I asked him why his sister was talking about leaving. And then I said that maybe she doesn't want to be his sister anymore because he's weird."
The room went very still.
Tim felt his jaw clench. Beside him, Conner's hand had become a fist.
"And then," Jackson continued, his voice small, "I maybe said that it's probably because he has two dads and that's why everything in his family is weird."
"Jackson!" Diane looked genuinely shocked. "Where did you—"
"Is that true, Thomas?" Principal Morrison interrupted, looking at Thomas with softer eyes now.
Thomas's chin was trembling. He nodded once, sharply. "He said Cait doesn't want to be my sister anymore. And that my family is weird because I don't have a mom." His voice broke on the last word. "So I pushed him. And when he pushed me back, I hit him."
Tim closed his eyes for a moment. Oh, kiddo.
"Thomas," Principal Morrison said gently. "I understand that what Jackson said was hurtful. Very hurtful. But we don't solve problems with violence. You know that, right?"
Thomas nodded miserably.
"Jackson," she turned to the other boy. "What you said was also unacceptable. We do not make fun of other people's families, ever. Do you understand?"
"Yes, ma'am," Jackson whispered.
Diane looked like she wanted to argue, but Principal Morrison held up a hand. "Mrs. Barnett, I think we need to have a separate conversation about appropriate language and respect. But right now, I need to address the physical altercation."
She pulled out two folders, setting them on her desk. "Both boys will be suspended for three days, starting tomorrow. Thomas for initiating physical contact, and Jackson for escalating it into a fight. They'll be allowed to return to school on Friday."
"Three days?" Diane sputtered. "But Jackson was defending himself!"
"Jackson pushed Thomas back and threw a punch, according to the playground supervisor's report," Principal Morrison said firmly. "Both boys made choices that led to someone getting hurt. Both boys will face consequences."
Tim felt Conner's leg bouncing under his hand—a nervous tic that meant he was processing, thinking, trying to figure out what to say.
"We understand," Tim said quietly. "Thomas, do you understand what Mrs. Morrison is saying?"
Thomas nodded, still not looking up.
"I want to hear you say it," Tim pressed gently.
"I'm suspended for three days because I hit Jackson," Thomas mumbled. "Even though he was being mean."
"Even though he was being mean," Tim confirmed. "Because hitting people isn't how we solve problems."
"Okay."
Principal Morrison stood. "I'll need both of you to sign some paperwork. And Thomas, Jackson—I want you both to spend your time at home thinking about better ways to handle situations when someone hurts your feelings. We'll talk more when you come back."
The boys nodded.
As they filed out of the office, Diane grabbed Jackson's hand and swept past them without a word, her expression glacial. Tim watched them go, then looked down at Thomas.
"Come on, kiddo," Conner said softly, placing his hand on Thomas's shoulder. "Let's go home."
—
The car ride home was silent except for the hum of the engine and the occasional sniffle from the back seat. Tim drove while Conner sat in the passenger seat, twisted around to keep an eye on Thomas.
Thomas stared out the window, his hands still clenched in his lap. The scrapes on his knuckles looked worse in the afternoon sunlight streaming through the glass. Every few seconds, he'd wipe at his eyes with the back of his hand, trying to be subtle about the tears that kept threatening to fall.
"Tommy," Conner started gently. "Do you want to talk about—"
"No," Thomas said, his voice small but firm.
Conner and Tim exchanged a look. Tim shook his head slightly—let it go for now. They'd try again at home.
When they pulled into the driveway, Thomas was out of the car before Tim had even turned off the engine. He ran up to the front door, fumbling with his backpack until Conner caught up to unlock it.
"Thomas, wait—" Tim called, but Thomas was already through the door, his feet thundering down the hallway.
A moment later, they heard his bedroom door slam.
Tim stood in the entryway, his keys still in his hand, feeling completely lost. This wasn't a case he could solve with logic. This wasn't a villain he could outsmart. This was his eight-year-old son hurting in a way that Tim didn't know how to fix.
"I'll go talk to him," Conner said, already heading for the hall.
"Kon, wait." Tim caught his arm. "Maybe we should give him a minute. Let him settle."
"He's upset, Tim. I'm not just going to leave him alone."
"I'm not saying leave him alone. I'm saying maybe he needs a minute to process before we come in with questions."
Conner looked torn, his protective instincts clearly warring with Tim's logic. Finally, he nodded. "Okay. Five minutes. Then I'm going whether he wants to talk or not."
Those five minutes felt like an hour.
Tim paced the kitchen, his mind spinning through everything that had happened. Thomas had gotten into a fight. Thomas, their sweet, enthusiastic little boy who collected fun facts about space and insisted on saying goodnight to every stuffed animal in his room. Thomas, who cried during sad movies and gave his dessert to Caitlyn when she'd had a bad day.
That Thomas had punched another kid.
Because that kid had said cruel things about their family.
Tim felt a complicated tangle of emotions—pride that Thomas had defended their family, anger at Jackson for saying those things, frustration that this had happened at all, and an overwhelming sense of failure that his son had been hurting and Tim hadn't even known.
He thought about the past few weeks. Had there been signs? Had Thomas been quieter than usual? Had he seemed withdrawn? Tim tried to replay their recent interactions, but they all blurred together in the mundane routine of family life. Breakfast, school drop-offs, homework, dinner, bedtime. Everything had seemed normal.
But clearly, it hadn't been.
"I should have noticed," Tim said quietly. "There must have been signs."
"Hey," Conner said, moving to stand in front of him. He put his hands on Tim's shoulders, grounding him. "Don't do that. Don't start blaming yourself. We can't read his mind."
"But we're his parents. We're supposed to know when something's wrong."
"We're his parents, not psychics. Sometimes kids hide things. That doesn't mean we failed."
Tim wanted to believe that, but the guilt sat heavy in his chest anyway.
"Okay," Conner said, checking his watch. "Five minutes. I'm going."
Tim followed him into the hall. They paused outside Thomas's door, which had a construction paper sign that said "THOMAS'S ROOM - NOCK PLEASE" in crayon. Under normal circumstances, Tim would have made a mental note to work on spelling. Right now, he just felt his heart ache.
Conner knocked gently. "Tommy? Can we come in?"
Silence.
"Buddy, we need to talk about what happened at school."
"I don't want to talk about it," came Thomas's muffled voice.
"I know you don't," Conner said, his voice patient. "But we're going to anyway. I'm coming in, okay?"
He opened the door slowly. Thomas was curled up on his bed, his face pressed into his pillow. His backpack was thrown on the floor, his shoes kicked off haphazardly. One of them had somehow ended up on top of his bookshelf, a mystery for another day.
Tim and Conner entered together, Tim closing the door softly behind them. Conner sat on the edge of the bed while Tim pulled over Thomas's desk chair, sitting so he was at eye level with the mattress.
"Tommy," Conner said gently, reaching out to touch his son's back. "Can you look at us, please?"
Thomas shook his head against the pillow.
"Okay. That's okay. You don't have to look at us. But you do need to listen, alright?"
A small nod.
Tim leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. "What happened today was serious, kiddo. You hurt someone. That's not okay, no matter what they said to you."
"But he said mean things about our family!" Thomas's voice was muffled but the pain in it was crystal clear.
"I know he did," Tim said, and his own voice cracked slightly. "And what he said was wrong. Really wrong. But hitting him didn't make it right. It just meant that both of you got hurt."
"I didn't mean to hurt him that bad," Thomas mumbled. "I was just so mad."
"Why were you so mad?" Conner asked softly. "Was it just about what he said? Or was there something else?"
Thomas was quiet for a long moment. Then, in the smallest voice: "I don't want to talk about it."
Tim tried a different angle. "Did something happen before today? Did Jackson say something else?"
"No."
"Did someone else say something?"
"No!"
"Then why—"
"I said I don't want to talk about it!" Thomas suddenly exploded, sitting up and glaring at them with red-rimmed eyes. Tears were streaming down his face now, unchecked. "Why can't you just leave me alone?"
Tim felt his own frustration rising, bubbling up from that place of helplessness and fear. They were trying to help, trying to understand, and Thomas was shutting them out completely. His hands clenched on his knees, and he felt the familiar tightness in his chest—the one that said he was about to lose his temper.
"Because you're our son and you're hurting and we need to know what's going on!" The words came out sharper than he intended, his voice rising slightly before he caught himself.
Thomas flinched, his eyes going wide.
Tim immediately felt terrible. The tightness in his chest intensified, but now it was for a different reason. He could feel the anxiety creeping in, the overwhelming sensation that he was doing everything wrong, that he was failing at the most important job he'd ever had. His throat felt tight. His hands were shaking slightly.
He stood abruptly, the chair scraping against the floor. "I need a minute," he said, his voice strained and barely above a whisper. He walked out of the room before either of them could respond, before he could make things worse, before he could say something else he'd regret.
In the hallway, Tim pressed his back against the wall and closed his eyes, trying to breathe. The breathing exercises Bruce had taught him years ago. In for four, hold for four, out for four. But his chest felt too tight, his thoughts too loud. He'd yelled at Thomas. Their son was clearly dealing with something traumatic and Tim had yelled at him. What kind of father did that?
Not a good one, the voice in his head supplied unhelpfully.
Inside the room, he heard Conner's gentle voice: "Hey, it's okay. Daddy's just worried about you. We both are. Sometimes when people are really worried, they sound upset even when they're not mad. He loves you so much, Tommy. We both do."
Tim slid down the wall until he was sitting on the floor, his head in his hands. He needed to get his head together. Thomas needed them—both of them—and Tim couldn't help if he was spiraling. But the guilt and the fear and the overwhelming sense of inadequacy kept swirling, making it hard to think straight.
After what felt like hours but was probably only a minute or two, he heard the door open. Conner stepped out, carefully closing it behind him. He looked down at Tim and his expression immediately softened with concern.
"Tim—"
"I yelled at him," Tim said quietly, his voice rough. "I yelled at our eight-year-old who's clearly going through something."
"But you didn't," Conner said, sliding down to sit next to him on the floor. He pulled Tim against his side. "You recognized you were getting overwhelmed and you stepped away. That's good, Tim. That's healthy. That's being a good parent."
"It doesn't feel good," Tim muttered. "It feels like I'm failing."
"You're not failing," Conner said firmly. "You're human. And being a parent is hard—harder than any mission we ever went on. There's no manual for this, no strategy guide. We're just doing our best."
"Our best doesn't feel like enough right now," Tim admitted, his voice small.
"I know. But it's all we have." Conner pressed a kiss to the top of his head, then rested his cheek there. "And Tommy knows we love him. Even if we don't have all the answers right now."
"What did you say to him? After I left?"
"I told him you weren't mad, just worried. I suggested he rest for a bit, and we'll try talking again later." Conner sighed. "He still won't tell me what's really bothering him. But I think there's something more than just what Jackson said. This feels... bigger."
Tim nodded against Conner's shoulder. "I know. I feel it too."
They sat there for a long moment, just being together in their mutual worry and uncertainty.
"Come on," Conner finally said, standing and offering Tim his hand. "Let's give him some space and regroup. Maybe we're going about this wrong. Maybe we need to try a different approach."
Tim took his hand and let Conner pull him up. "What kind of approach?"
"I don't know yet," Conner admitted. "But we'll figure it out. We always do."
—
Over the next day, Tim and Conner tried everything they could think of.
Day one started with the gentle approach. They made Thomas's favorite breakfast—chocolate chip pancakes with extra whipped cream—and sat with him at the table, asking open-ended questions in their softest voices.
"How are you feeling this morning, buddy?" Conner asked, pouring orange juice.
Thomas pushed a pancake piece around his plate. "Fine."
"Do you want to talk about what happened yesterday?"
"No."
"Is there anything we can do to help you feel better?"
"I'm fine, Papa. Can I be excused?"
Tim and Conner exchanged helpless looks as Thomas scraped his chair back and trudged out of the kitchen, his shoulders hunched.
"That went well," Tim muttered, pushing his own barely-touched breakfast away.
"We'll try again later," Conner said, though he didn't sound particularly optimistic.
Mid-morning, Tim tried a different tack. He knocked on Thomas's door and found him lying on his bed, staring at the ceiling.
"Hey, kiddo. Want to help me with something in the garage? I'm organizing my old case files and I could use an assistant detective."
Thomas used to love playing detective with Tim. He'd wear an old Robin cape that Tim had saved from his own childhood and would make elaborate theories about missing socks and mysteriously empty cookie jars.
But today, Thomas just shook his head. "I don't really feel like it."
"Okay," Tim said, trying not to show his disappointment. "Well, if you change your mind, I'll be out there."
He didn’t.
Conner tried next, in the early afternoon. He poked his head into Thomas's room with an enticing offer: "Hey, Tommy. I'm going to fly to the store to get stuff for dinner. Want to come with me? We could take the scenic route. Maybe fly over the bay?"
Flying with Conner was usually Thomas's favorite thing. He'd squeal with delight as Conner lifted them both into the air, pointing out landmarks and making up stories about the people they saw below.
"No, thank you," Thomas said quietly, not even looking up from the picture book he wasn't really reading.
Conner stood in the doorway for a long moment, his expression pained. Finally, he nodded. "Okay, buddy. I'll be back soon."
That evening, they tried the casual approach. Tim queued up one of Thomas's favorite movies—The Iron Giant, which always made both Thomas and Conner cry at the end—and set out bowls of popcorn.
"Movie night!" Conner announced, trying to inject enthusiasm into his voice. "Come on, Tommy. Family time."
Thomas came into the living room reluctantly and sat on the far end of the couch, putting a cushion between himself and his dads. He sat through the entire movie in silence, barely even eating any popcorn. When the sad parts came, parts that usually had him sobbing into Conner's shirt, he just stared at the screen with dry eyes.
After the movie ended and Thomas trudged back to bed, Tim and Conner sat in the darkened living room, the credits rolling uselessly.
"This isn't working," Tim said, voicing what they were both thinking.
"I know," Conner replied. He sounded exhausted. "I've never seen him like this, Tim. It's like he's just... shut down."
"Should we call someone? A therapist? Maybe he needs to talk to a professional."
"Maybe," Conner said slowly. "But something tells me there's something specific bothering him. Something he's afraid to tell us. If we can just figure out what it is..."
"But how?" Tim asked, frustration bleeding into his voice. "We've asked him a hundred different ways. We've tried being gentle, tried being casual, tried everything I can think of. And he just keeps saying he's fine when he's clearly not."
Conner didn't have an answer.
—
Day two wasn't much better.
They tried the activity approach—getting Thomas out of the house in the hopes that a change of scenery might help. They went to the park, Thomas's favorite place, with its sprawling jungle gym and the wobbly bridge that he always pretended was the pathway to a secret base.
But Thomas just went through the motions. He climbed the jungle gym slowly, mechanically, like he was following a checklist rather than playing. He went down the slide once, didn't even smile, and then sat on a swing, barely moving.
Tim watched from a nearby bench, his chest tight with worry. Beside him, Conner looked equally concerned, his hand gripping the edge of the bench like he was physically restraining himself from going over and demanding answers.
"Look at him," Conner said quietly. "He's like a little robot."
Tim nodded. "Should we go talk to him again?"
"I don't know. What would we even say that we haven't already said?"
They sat there for another twenty minutes, watching their son go through the motions of play without any of the joy. Finally, when Thomas just stood by the swings looking lost, Conner couldn't take it anymore.
"Come on, buddy," he said, walking over. "Let's go home. I think we're all tired."
Thomas didn't argue. He just took Conner's hand and followed him back to the car.
That afternoon, Tim tried something different. He brought his laptop into the living room where Thomas was listlessly watching cartoons and sat down next to him.
"Hey, Tommy. Want to help me with something?"
Thomas glanced at him warily. "What?"
"I'm trying to organize photos for a family album. Thought maybe you could help me pick out the good ones."
It was a peace offering. A way to spend time together without the pressure of talking about feelings. Thomas considered for a moment, then nodded.
They went through photos together—pictures from their trip to Metropolis last summer, from Thomas's birthday party, from various family gatherings. Tim pointed out funny moments, reminded Thomas of stories behind the photos. For a while, Thomas seemed almost engaged, almost like himself.
But then they came to a photo of the whole family—Tim, Conner, Thomas, and Caitlyn—taken at a 4th of July barbecue at the Kent farm. Caitlyn had her arm around Thomas, both of them laughing at something someone had said.
Thomas stared at the photo for a long time. Then, very quietly: "Can we stop now? I'm tired."
And just like that, the moment was gone.
"Of course," Tim said gently. "Go rest if you need to."
Thomas left, and Tim stared at the photo on his laptop screen, trying to figure out what he was missing. There had to be something. Some clue. But what?
That evening, they tried one more time. After dinner—which Thomas picked at without eating much—Tim knocked on his door again.
"Hey, buddy. Can I come in?"
"Okay," came the listless response.
Tim entered to find Thomas sitting on his bed, his tablet in his lap, playing some educational game about planets. But he wasn't really playing—just tapping listlessly at the screen.
Tim sat down next to him, feeling the weight of the past two days, of all their failed attempts to reach their son.
"Tommy, I want to apologize again. For getting frustrated. That wasn't fair to you. You're dealing with something hard, and I should have been more patient."
Thomas looked up at him, his eyes tired. "It's okay, Daddy."
"No, it's not," Tim said. "You deserve better than that. You deserve parents who can help you when you're hurting. So, I'm sorry. And I promise I'll do better."
Thomas nodded, then went back to his game.
Tim tried again. "Is there anything—anything at all—that you want to talk about? It doesn't have to be about school. Or Jackson. It can be about anything. I just... I hate seeing you so sad, kiddo."
Thomas's fingers tightened on the tablet. For a moment, Tim thought he might actually say something. But then: "No, Daddy. I'm fine."
But he wasn't fine. Tim could see it in every line of his small body, in the way he held himself carefully, like he was trying not to break. In the way he wouldn't meet Tim's eyes. In the careful way he spoke, like he was measuring every word.
"Okay," Tim said softly, his heart breaking. "But remember, whenever you're ready to talk—if you're ever ready to talk—Papa and I are here. We love you so much, Tommy. Nothing you could say would ever change that. You know that, right?"
Thomas nodded, but he still wouldn't look up.
Tim kissed the top of his head, breathing in that familiar little-boy scent of shampoo and sunshine. "I love you, kiddo."
"Love you too," Thomas whispered.
Tim left the room feeling like he'd failed some crucial test. Like there was something obvious he was missing, some key piece of the puzzle that would make everything make sense. But no matter how hard he looked, he couldn't find it.
He found Conner in the kitchen, making tea. Conner took one look at Tim's face and his shoulders slumped.
"No luck?"
"No luck," Tim confirmed. He slumped into a chair at the table, putting his head in his hands. "Kon, I don't know what to do. We've tried everything I can think of. Being gentle, being casual, giving him space, spending time with him. Nothing works. He just keeps shutting us out."
Conner set a cup of tea in front of Tim and sat down across from him. "I know. I'm worried too. This isn't like him. Thomas doesn't hide things. Usually we can't get him to stop talking."
"Exactly. Which makes me think whatever he's dealing with, it's bad. Bad enough that he doesn't know how to talk about it. Or he's scared to."
"Scared of what?" Conner asked. "We've told him a hundred times that he can tell us anything."
"I know, but..." Tim trailed off, thinking. "When I was a kid, there were things I was scared to tell my parents. Not because I thought they'd be mad, but because I didn't want to worry them. Or because I thought it was something I should be able to handle myself."
"You think that's what this is? He's trying to protect us?"
"Maybe. Or maybe he's ashamed. Kids that age... they're still figuring out how emotions work. Maybe he doesn't know how to articulate what he's feeling."
Conner rubbed his face tiredly. "So what do we do?"
"I don't know," Tim admitted. "Maybe we do need to call a child psychologist. Someone who specializes in this kind of thing."
"Yeah," Conner agreed reluctantly. "I'll start looking into that tomorrow."
They sat in silence for a while, both lost in their own worried thoughts. They could hear the faint sound of Thomas moving around in his room, getting ready for bed.
"Do you think he knows how much we love him?" Conner asked suddenly. "Like, really knows?"
"I hope so," Tim said. "But right now, I'm not sure he knows anything except whatever's hurting him."
—
On the third day, Caitlyn came home from volleyball practice to find the house strangely quiet. Usually, Thomas would greet her at the door, rambling about his day or showing her something he'd built with his blocks or dragging her to see his latest drawing. The sound of his excited voice was as much a part of coming home as the smell of whatever dinner was cooking.
Today, there was nothing but silence.
She dropped her gym bag by the door—making a mental note to actually take it to her room later before Dad noticed and gave her the "we don't live in a barn" speech—and kicked off her shoes. The house felt wrong. Too quiet. Too still.
She found Tim in the kitchen, sitting at the table with his laptop open in front of him. But he wasn't working. He was just staring at the screen, his hands buried in his hair, his shoulders curved forward in a posture that Caitlyn had learned to recognize as "Dad is stressed beyond his capacity to cope."
"Dad?" she said, worry immediately flooding through her. She'd seen Tim stressed before—she'd seen him work through cases for Bruce, had watched him pull all-nighters to meet deadlines for Wayne Enterprises. But this was different. This was a special kind of defeated that she'd only seen a handful of times.
Tim looked up, startled, like he'd been so deep in his own thoughts that he hadn't heard her come in. For a moment, he just blinked at her, and Caitlyn could see how tired he looked. There were dark circles under his eyes, and his hair was standing up in about fifteen different directions from how many times he'd run his hands through it.
"Oh, Cait. Hey. How was practice?" He tried to smile, but it came out more as a grimace.
"It was good," she said slowly, setting her water bottle on the counter. "Coach said I’m definitely ready for my final season."
"That's great, sweetheart. Really great." Tim's voice was sincere, but it was also hollow, like he was saying the right words but his brain was somewhere else entirely.
Caitlyn pulled out the chair across from him and sat down, her detective instincts—definitely inherited from this very man—kicking into high gear. "But you didn't answer my question. What's wrong? Where's Tommy?"
Tim sighed, a deep, bone-weary sound, and closed his laptop with a soft click. "He's in his room. He's been... we're dealing with something."
Caitlyn felt her stomach drop. "What kind of something? Is he sick?"
"No, not sick. He's..." Tim paused, clearly trying to figure out how much to tell her. Then he seemed to make a decision. She was eighteen, not a little kid. She deserved to know. "He got into a fight at school. With Jackson. He's suspended for three days."
For a moment, Caitlyn just stared at him, sure she'd heard wrong. "Tommy? Our Tommy got into a fight?"
"Yes."
"Like, a physical fight? With hitting?"
"Yes, Cait."
Caitlyn leaned back in her chair, genuinely shocked. Thomas was the least violent person she knew. He literally cried during nature documentaries when the predator caught its prey. He'd spent twenty minutes last summer trying to rescue a moth that had gotten stuck in the garage, talking to it gently the whole time about how it was going to be okay. That Thomas had hit someone?
"What happened?" she asked. "Why would he hit Jackson?"
Tim's jaw tightened. "Jackson said some... unkind things about our family. Really unkind things. And Tommy pushed him. It escalated from there."
Caitlyn's eyes narrowed—that razor-sharp focus that she definitely got from Tim. "What exactly did Jackson say?"
"Caitlyn—"
"No, Dad. I want to know. What did that little brat say?"
Tim hesitated, then relented. "He told Thomas that maybe you don't want to be Tommy's sister anymore because our family is weird. Because Tommy has two dads instead of a mom and dad."
The words hung in the air like a physical thing. Caitlyn felt them hit her in the chest—anger, hurt, fierce protectiveness all swirling together into a hot ball of emotion that made her hands clench into fists on the table.
"That little asshole," she said, her voice low and furious.
"Caitlyn—"
"No, Dad. That's completely messed up. I get why Tommy hit him. If someone said that to me, I'd have punched them too. Actually, you know what? Can I go punch Jackson now?"
Despite everything, Tim's mouth twitched slightly. "We don't solve problems with violence."
"Yeah, well, sometimes people need to get punched," Caitlyn muttered darkly. Then, forcing herself to focus past her anger: "Is Tommy okay? Like, really okay? About what Jackson said?"
Tim shook his head, and Caitlyn could see how much it was killing him to admit it. "No. He's not okay. And that's the problem—we don't know what's really wrong because he won't talk to us. We've tried everything, Cait. Every approach we can think of. We've been gentle, we've been casual, we've tried giving him space and we've tried spending time with him. Nothing works. He just keeps shutting down whenever we ask what's really bothering him."
Caitlyn bit her lip, processing this. She thought about Tommy—her little brother who talked about everything, who had opinions about every topic under the sun, who couldn't keep a secret to save his life because he'd get so excited he'd just blurt it out.
For him to be this closed off... yeah, something was really wrong.
"Can I try?" she asked.
Tim looked at her, hope flickering in his exhausted eyes. "Try what?"
"Talking to him. Maybe he'll open up to me. Sometimes it's easier to talk to someone who's not your parent, you know?"
Tim considered this for a long moment. They'd tried everything else. What harm could it do? "Okay. But Cait, don't push too hard, alright? He's pretty fragile right now."
"I won't," Caitlyn promised. She stood up, then paused. "Dad? You and Pops... you're doing your best, okay? Sometimes kids just need to figure things out their own way first."
Tim's eyes got a bit shiny, and he looked away quickly. "Thanks, kiddo. That means a lot."
Caitlyn grabbed an apple from the counter—more for something to do with her hands than because she was hungry—and headed back into the hall.
She paused outside Thomas's door, which was closed. That alone told her something was wrong. Thomas never closed his door. Ever. He liked being able to hear what was going on in the rest of the house, liked the feeling of being connected even when he was in his room. A closed door meant he was trying to shut the world out.
That thought made her chest ache.
She knocked softly. "Tommy? It's Cait. Can I come in?"
There was a long pause. Long enough that she thought maybe he was going to tell her to go away. Then: "I guess."
She pushed the door open and found exactly what Dad had described—Thomas on his bed with his tablet, not really doing anything with it. He looked so small curled up against his pillows, and there was something about his posture that made him seem even younger than six.
Caitlyn's heart broke a little. She sat down on the edge of his bed, close but not too close.
"Hey," she said gently. "How are you doing?"
"Fine," Thomas mumbled.
"Dad told me what happened. With Jackson."
Thomas's shoulders hunched. "Are you mad at me?"
"For hitting Jackson? No. Well, I'm not glad you hit someone, but I get why you did it. He said some really mean stuff."
Thomas was quiet for a moment. Then, in a small voice: "Do you really not want to be my sister?"
Caitlyn felt like she'd been punched. "What? Tommy, no. Of course not. Why would you think that?"
"Jackson said—"
"Jackson's wrong," Caitlyn said fiercely. She scooted closer, taking the tablet and setting it aside. "Tommy, look at me."
Slowly, Thomas raised his eyes to meet hers.
"I love being your sister," Caitlyn said. "You're annoying sometimes, because that's what little brothers do, but I wouldn't trade you for anything. You're one of the best things that ever happened to me."
Thomas's eyes were starting to shine with tears. "Really?"
"Really, really."
He was quiet for a long moment. Then, his face crumpled. "But you're going to leave."
Caitlyn blinked. "What?"
"You're going to go to college and leave me alone," Thomas said, and now the tears were falling. "And then I'll be by myself and you won't be my sister anymore because you'll be too far away."
Oh.
Oh.
Caitlyn felt her own eyes burn. She pulled Thomas into a hug, holding him tight as he started to cry in earnest. "Is that what this is about? Is that why you've been so upset?"
Thomas nodded against her shoulder, his small body shaking with sobs. "I heard you... you were talking on the phone... about colleges... and you said you wanted to go far away... and I don't want you to go..."
"Oh, Tommy," Caitlyn whispered. She held him tighter, rocking him slightly. "I'm so sorry. I didn't know you heard that."
"I don't... want you... to leave," Thomas hiccupped between sobs. "You're my sister. You're supposed to stay."
Caitlyn felt tears sliding down her own cheeks now. "Tommy, listen to me. Even if I go to college—and that's not for at least like, eight months, okay?—even if I go far away, I'll still be your sister. Always. Distance doesn't change that."
"But you won't be here," Thomas said miserably.
"No, I won't be here every day. But I'll call you. And video chat. And I'll come home for holidays and summers. And you know what? By the time I actually leave, I am going to have spent so much time with you that you'll probably be so sick of me that you'll be happy to only see me on the holidays and summer."
Thomas let out a watery laugh despite himself. "No I won't."
"Okay, maybe not. But Tommy, me going to college doesn't mean I'm abandoning you. It just means I'm growing up. And you'll grow up too, and someday you'll want to go to college and have adventures of your own."
"I don't want adventures without you," Thomas mumbled.
Caitlyn pulled back just enough to see his face. She wiped his tears with her thumb. "You won't be without me. Not really. Because I'll always be your big sister. Even when we're old and gray and you're taller than me—which will happen because you're already eating like a teenage boy—I'll still be your sister."
"Promise?" Thomas asked, his voice small and hopeful.
"I promise," Caitlyn said firmly. "Nothing—not college, not distance, not anything—will change the fact that you're my little brother and I love you. Okay?"
Thomas nodded, sniffling. "Okay."
"Is that why you hit Jackson? Because you were already upset about me leaving, and then he said I didn't want to be your sister?"
Thomas ducked his head. "Yeah. I know I shouldn't have hit him. But he was being so mean, and I was already sad, and I just... I got so angry."
"I get it," Caitlyn said. "I probably would have wanted to punch him too. But you can't go around hitting people just because they say mean things. You know that, right?"
"I know," Thomas said miserably. "Principal Morrison said I have to think of better ways to handle my feelings."
"That's good advice," Caitlyn agreed. "Like maybe next time, you could talk to someone? Dad or Pops or me? Instead of keeping it all inside until you explode?"
Thomas nodded. "I'm sorry I didn't tell you I was sad."
"It's okay. Sometimes it's hard to talk about scary feelings." She booped his nose gently. "But now you know that you can, right? You can always talk to me. Even if I'm at college, you can call me."
"Even if it's three in the morning?"
Caitlyn laughed. "Well, maybe text first to see if I'm awake. But yeah, even then."
Thomas wrapped his arms around her again, squeezing tight. "I love you, Cait."
"I love you too, kiddo," she said, her voice thick. "So much."
They sat like that for a while, Caitlyn just holding her little brother while he processed everything. Finally, Thomas pulled back and wiped his eyes.
"Do you think Daddy and Pops are mad at me?" he asked. "For not talking to them?"
"No," Caitlyn said. "But I think they've been really worried. Maybe we should go tell them what's been going on?"
Thomas looked nervous. "Do I have to?"
"I think you should. They've been trying so hard to help you, Tommy. They deserve to know what's been bothering you."
Thomas thought about this, then nodded slowly. "Okay. But... will you come with me?"
"Of course," Caitlyn said, standing and offering her hand. "Come on. Let's go find them."
They found Tim and Conner in the living room. Tim was still on his laptop, though he looked no more productive than before. Conner was reading a book, but his eyes kept darting to the hallway as if willing Thomas to come out.
When they saw Caitlyn and Thomas together, both men immediately sat up straighter.
"Hey," Caitlyn said. "Tommy has something he wants to tell you."
Tim closed his laptop immediately, giving Thomas his full attention. Conner set down his book, his expression hopeful but careful.
Thomas stood in front of them, Caitlyn's hand in his for support. He looked down at his feet, his voice small.
"I was sad because Cait is going to go to college and leave me."
The room went very still.
"Oh, Tommy," Conner breathed.
"I heard her on the phone talking about going far away," Thomas continued, the words coming faster now. "And Jackson said mean things about our family, but I was already upset about Cait leaving, and it just all came out at once and I hit him and I'm sorry I didn't tell you and I'm sorry I hit Jackson and I'm sorry I made you worried—"
"Whoa, whoa, slow down," Tim said gently. He knelt down so he was at Thomas's eye level. "You don't need to apologize for making us worried. We're your dads. Worrying about you is literally our job."
"But I made you upset," Thomas said, his eyes filling again.
"You made us concerned," Tim corrected. "Because we love you. And when someone you love is hurting and won't tell you why, it's scary. But you're not in trouble for that, okay?"
Thomas nodded, sniffling.
Conner came over and knelt down too, so both dads were at Thomas's level. "Can I ask you something, buddy?"
"Okay."
"Why didn't you tell us you were worried about Cait leaving? We could have talked about it."
Thomas's lower lip trembled. "Because you would have told me it's a long time away and I shouldn't worry about it."
Tim and Conner exchanged guilty looks. That's exactly what they would have said.
"You're right," Tim admitted. "We probably would have said that. But that wouldn't have made your feelings go away, would it?"
Thomas shook his head.
"Then we're glad you told us now," Conner said. "Even if it took a little while to get there. Thank you for trusting us with this."
"But what if Cait does leave?" Thomas asked, his voice breaking. "What if she goes far away and forgets about me?"
"I'm not going to forget about you, Tommy," Caitlyn said, squeezing his hand. "I already promised him," she told Tim and Conner. "I told him I'll always be his sister, no matter where I am."
"That's right," Tim said. He reached out and put his hand on Thomas's shoulder. "Tommy, do you know why Cait wants to go to college?"
Thomas shook his head.
"Because she wants to learn new things and grow as a person. Just like you're learning and growing right now. And yeah, that might mean she goes somewhere else for a while. But love doesn't have a distance limit, kiddo. Just because someone's far away doesn't mean they love you any less."
"Like Grandpa Clark and Grandpa Bruce?" Thomas asked. "They’re far but they still love me?"
"Exactly like them," Conner said, smiling. "And Uncle Jason, Uncle Dick, Aunt Cass— They all love you even though they're not right here."
"And they visit," Thomas said slowly, working through the logic. "And we video chat."
"Right," Caitlyn agreed. "That's exactly what we'll do."
Thomas was quiet for a moment, processing. Then: "Can I call Grandpa Clark?"
Tim and Conner looked surprised. "Right now?"
"Yeah. I want to ask him something."
Conner pulled out his phone. "Sure, buddy. Let me see if he's available."
He stepped away to make the call. A moment later, he came back. "He's got a few minutes. You want to talk to him in your room?"
Thomas nodded. Caitlyn gave his hand one more squeeze, then let him go. Thomas took Conner's phone and headed to his room.
As soon as he was out of earshot, Tim looked at Caitlyn. "What happened?"
Caitlyn sat down on the couch, suddenly exhausted. "He overheard me talking to one of my friends about colleges. I was saying I wanted to go somewhere with a good distance from home—I meant like, not just locally, but he heard it as me wanting to get away from him. And it's been eating at him for weeks, I guess."
"Weeks?" Tim looked stricken. "He's been upset about this for weeks and we didn't notice?"
"He's eight, Dad. He probably didn't even fully understand what he was feeling until Jackson made it worse." Caitlyn leaned back. "But I told him I'm not abandoning him. And I think he believes me. At least, I hope he does."
Tim sat down next to her, wrapping an arm around her shoulders. "Thank you. For getting through to him when we couldn't."
"He's my little brother," Caitlyn said simply. "That's what big sisters do."
They could hear Thomas's voice through the door, talking animatedly. After about ten minutes, he came back, Conner's phone in hand.
"Grandpa says that he misses you guys every day, but he knows that you're happy in Jump City, so that makes him happy too," Thomas reported. "And he said that when Cait goes to college, she'll miss us every day, but she'll also be happy, and that should make us happy too."
"Grandpa Clark is a smart man," Tim said.
Thomas handed the phone back to Conner. "He also said that love is like a superpower—it works even when you're far away."
Conner's eyes got a bit misty. "Yeah, that sounds like him."
Thomas climbed up onto the couch between Tim and Caitlyn, wedging himself into the middle. "I'm still sad that Cait is going to leave someday. But I think I'll be okay."
"You'll more than be okay," Tim said, pulling him close. "You've got a whole family who loves you, kiddo. And we're not going anywhere."
"Not even to Metropolis?" Thomas asked.
"Well, we'll visit Metropolis," Conner laughed. "But we're not moving there."
"Good," Thomas said, yawning suddenly. The emotional exhaustion of the past few days was clearly catching up to him. "'Cause I like our house."
"We like it too," Tim said softly.
They sat there for a while, the four of them, just being together. Eventually, Thomas fell asleep against Caitlyn's shoulder, his face peaceful for the first time in days.
"Should we wake him up for dinner?" Caitlyn whispered.
Tim shook his head. "Let him sleep. He's had a rough few days."
Conner carefully lifted Thomas, cradling him against his chest. "I'll put him to bed properly."
As he carried their son to his room, Tim looked at Caitlyn. "You know, you're going to be an amazing adult. You're already an amazing kid."
Caitlyn smiled, though her eyes were a bit watery. "Thanks, Dad. But I'm not in a hurry to be a proper adult. I think I'll stick around and be Tommy's big sister for a while longer."
"Good," Tim said, pulling her into a hug. "Because we're not ready to let you go either."
—
The next morning, Thomas woke up early. He padded out of his room to find Tim already in the kitchen, making coffee. Tim turned when he heard the footsteps.
"Morning, buddy. You're up early."
"Morning, Daddy," Thomas said. He climbed up onto one of the kitchen chairs, his feet swinging. "Are you still mad at me? About the fight?"
Tim poured himself a cup of coffee, then came to sit next to Thomas. "I was never mad, Tommy. I was worried, and maybe a little frustrated that you wouldn't talk to us, but I was never mad."
"Oh," Thomas said quietly. "That's good."
"But," Tim continued gently, "we do need to talk about consequences. You were suspended from school, which means you already had that consequence. But at home, you're going to lose tablet privileges for a week."
Thomas's face fell. "A whole week?"
"A whole week," Tim confirmed. "Because even though you were upset, hitting someone is a serious thing. And we need you to understand that."
Thomas nodded slowly. "That's fair."
Tim was surprised. "It is?"
"Yeah. I did something bad. So I should have a consequence." He paused. "But after the week, can I earn my tablet back by being extra good?"
"You don't need to be 'extra good,'" Tim said. "Just regular good. Normal Tommy good."
"I can do that," Thomas said with determination.
Conner came in then, his hair still messy from sleep. "Good morning, you two. Are we having a serious conversation?"
"We were just talking about consequences," Tim said.
"And I'm going to be really good for a whole week," Thomas added. "Even without my tablet."
Conner ruffled his hair. "I believe you, kiddo. You know what? How about you stay home from school and we do something fun together? All of us, as a family?"
"Even though I was suspended?" Thomas asked.
"Even though you're suspended," Conner confirmed. "Because you're still our son and we still love you, even when you make mistakes."
Thomas thought about this. "Can we go to the park? And get Sundollar after?"
"Sounds perfect," Tim said. "But first, breakfast. What do you want?"
"Pancakes!" Thomas decided. "The kind with the chocolate chips."
"Chocolate chip pancakes it is," Tim agreed.
As Conner started pulling out the pancake mix and Thomas chattered about how much whipped cream he wanted later, Tim felt something in his chest unclench. They weren't perfect parents. They made mistakes. But they were trying, and they were learning, and most importantly, they were there.
And in the end, maybe that was enough.
—
On Monday, Thomas returned to school. Tim and Conner both took him, one on each side as they walked into the building.
Principal Morrison met them in the lobby. "Thomas. It's good to see you back. Did you do the thinking I asked you to do?"
"Yes, ma'am," Thomas said. "I thought about better ways to handle my feelings. Like talking to my dads or my sister instead of hitting people."
"That's very good," she said, looking pleased. "Jackson came back Friday. He also did some thinking about the things he said to you. I believe he has something he wants to say. He's waiting in my office."
Thomas looked nervous. Tim squeezed his shoulder. "We'll be right here if you need us."
They followed Principal Morrison to her office. Jackson was sitting in one of the chairs, his mother beside him. Diane looked like she'd rather be anywhere else, but she gave a tight nod when they entered.
Jackson stood up when he saw Thomas. "Hi, Tommy."
"Hi, Jackson," Thomas said quietly.
"I wanted to say I'm sorry," Jackson said, clearly reciting something he'd practiced. "I said mean things about your family, and that wasn't nice. My mom talked to me about how families can look different, and that I shouldn’t be mean about it. I'm sorry I was mean about your dads."
Thomas looked at Jackson's bruised cheek, then at his own scraped knuckles. "I'm sorry I hit you. That wasn't okay either. Even though I was mad."
"It's okay," Jackson said. "Well, not okay. But I forgive you."
"I forgive you too," Thomas said.
The boys stood there awkwardly for a moment. Then Jackson said, "Do you want to play at recess today? I learned a new game."
Thomas looked up at Tim and Conner. Conner nodded encouragingly.
"Okay," Thomas said. "That sounds fun."
As they headed back out to the hallway, Tim caught Diane's eye. She looked uncomfortable but stepped forward.
"I wanted to apologize," she said stiffly. "I didn't realize Jackson had picked up some... unfortunate attitudes. We've had several conversations about watching our words."
"Thank you," Tim said. He meant it. It wasn't easy to acknowledge when your kid had done something wrong. "We appreciate that."
She nodded, then herded Jackson toward his classroom.
Tim and Conner walked Thomas to his classroom. At the door, Thomas turned to them.
"Thank you," he said. "For helping me figure out what was wrong."
"Anytime, buddy," Conner said, kneeling down to hug him. "That's what we're here for."
"We love you," Tim added. "Have a good day, okay?"
"I will," Thomas promised. "And Daddy? Pops?"
"Yeah?"
"Even when I'm a grown-up and maybe have to go far away like Cait, I'll still love you. Because love is like a superpower. It works even when you're far away."
Tim felt his throat close up. Conner's eyes were definitely misty now.
"That's right, Tommy," Conner managed. "That's exactly right."
They watched Thomas disappear into his classroom, already chatting with Carter about something or other. Then they walked back out to the car together, Conner's arm around Tim's shoulders.
"We did okay, right?" Tim asked as they got in. "With handling all of this?"
"We did great," Conner assured him. "We didn't have all the answers, but we kept trying until we figured it out. That's all we can do."
Tim leaned his head against the car window, watching the school get smaller in the side mirror. "Being a parent is terrifying."
"Yeah," Conner agreed. "But it's also kind of amazing."
"Yeah," Tim said softly. "It really is."
They drove home in comfortable silence, the morning sun warming the car. Somewhere behind them, their son was learning and growing and being brave. And ahead of them, their daughter was probably sleeping in before her late-start schedule.
Their family wasn't perfect. But it was theirs, and it was filled with love, and in the end, that was what mattered.
That was everything.