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Robin had a shitty mom. Everyone who knew her had heard her say it at least once. Her mother never bothered pretending otherwise; Robin had been treated like an inconvenience from the moment she could walk. Too tall, too loud, too weird, too everything.
Robin pretended she didn’t care, and most days she didn’t. But there were nights she caught herself watching other families just thinking, God, what would it feel like to be wanted?
She never would’ve admitted it to anyone, not even Steve, but she longed for motherly affection. She wasn’t desperate, just curious. Curious what it might be like to have a mom who actually wanted her.
And there was one mom in Hawkins who did.
Karen Wheeler. Perfect hair, perfect posture, perfect smile. She had that suburban-mom look that made strangers assume she was like the rest of them. But there was something different about her. She was genuinely kind.
After everything that happened with the Upside Down and Vecna and the world being saved by the least likely collection of idiots, Karen had woken up a little. She knew her kids, and the other kids she drove to school or called about curfew, were dealing with more than she’d realized.
She wanted to know it all now. She wanted them to tell her the things they didn’t even say to each other. She wanted to be there for someone, and maybe make a little difference.
And Robin? She had tried her luck with Joyce. That had been a disaster. She’d shown up at the Byers’ house with this awkward, hopeful idea that maybe Joyce could teach her how to braid hair. Moms knew how to do that kind of thing, right?
But the second Robin asked, Joyce’s eyes went all wide and watery, like she thought Robin was about to unload some life-changing confession. The conversation went downhill from there, with Robin insisting it was just braids, Joyce insisting Robin must be hurting much worse than she let on, and somewhere along the way they both ended up crying at Joyce’s kitchen table. By the time they were done, the only thing braided was their mutual embarrassment.
No braids. No bonding moment.
Just tears and a very confused Jonathan passing through the doorway.
So, she’d backed off.
Then came the day she went by the Wheeler house to say goodbye to Nancy before some club meeting or whatever was eating up Nancy’s schedule at the time.
Karen answered the door instead.
She didn’t just say hello or shove Robin upstairs. She touched her arm, asked her how she was doing, brought her inside, asked if she wanted lemonade, and fussed with her bangs. Actually fussed with them.
The opportunity had presented itself.
And Robin was nothing if not committed once she decided on something. Even if the thing made no sense to anyone but her.
She started dedicating songs to Mrs. Wheeler on the radio. ’70s stuff that felt motherly or nostalgic or whatever Robin thought Karen might like. Mike would call sometimes, mostly to complain, but he’d always end up saying, “My mom heard it. She liked it. She said it was sweet.”
Perfect.
Step one: secure the perfect mom’s approval.
Step two was easier. Robin started dropping by. Always with an excuse like returning a sweater Nancy left in her car, bringing over cookies Dustin’s mom had sent with her, or pretending she needed to borrow sugar even though she didn’t know how to bake. But the best pretense, her favourite, was the nail polish thing.
“Mrs. Wheeler?” she’d ask, leaning into the doorway. Dropping off a book for Mike had been a convenient excuse. “Do you…maybe know how to fix this? I tried to paint them, and now they look like…shit.”
Karen would purse her lips, take that long, thoughtful pause that Robin had come to recognize as the “I’m thinking this through” pause, and then nod.
She would bring Robin to the bathroom and have her sit on the floor, then join her with a nail file, polish, and a little tool for scraping off mistakes. “Just sit still, honey,” Karen would say, and Robin would try her hardest, but her leg had a mind of its own, bouncing up and down anyway.
And then came the best day.
Baking wasn’t Robin’s thing. Not even remotely. She didn’t cook, didn’t bake, didn’t even make boxed mac and cheese without burning it. Anything that required patience or waiting? Absolutely not for her. But old ladies loved that stuff. Specifically, the cardigan-wearing, grocery-list-writing, casserole-making type. And Karen Wheeler was, in Robin’s mind, the final boss of that entire demographic.
So, she showed up at the Wheeler’s front door, fully aware she probably should have been doing literally anything else productive.
“Hey…Mrs. Wheeler. Random question,” Robin said, scratching the back of her neck. “Do you…maybe…know how to make sugar cookies? Because I don’t. And, uh…I figured maybe it’s time I learned.”
“Sugar cookies?” Karen lit up instantly. “Oh, that’s easy. You’ve come to the right place,” she said, stepping aside and opening the door wider. “Come on in—let’s get you started.”
Karen absolutely loved baking. Robin knew it the way she knew Karen always smelled like flowers and hairspray. Any excuse to pull out her recipe books, any excuse to make cookies for even the smallest gathering, Karen took it.
Karen slipped an apron around her waist and left her curls down, not bothering with a hair tie. Robin stared longer than she probably should have, completely frozen in the doorway. Her own mother had brown eyes too, but they’d never made her pause. Karen’s eyes were beautiful and always rimmed with bright eyeshadow that made them stand out even more. Robin couldn’t stop noticing them.
Her mother’s hair was wavy too, but it had never looked so soft. Karen’s curls made her seem bigger than life, even when she was just standing there, smiling.
And then there was Robin. Her hair was a mess, her clothes were wrinkled, and her hands were sticky from who-knows-what.
Awesome.
Karen then handed Robin an apron. It was one of Nancy’s old ones, with faded cherries on the front and a fraying tie that Robin remembered seeing Nancy wear in some picture from years ago.
Karen moved to the cupboard and pulled out a stack of old recipe books, sliding them across the counter toward Robin. “Pick whatever you want,” she said casually, like she didn’t think it was at all strange that a tall, awkward band kid showed up asking to bake sugar cookies.
Robin flipped through the pages slowly, pretending she knew what she was looking at, though mostly she was just enjoying the smell of the old paper. She landed on a page with sugar cookies shaped like stars, and for some reason, she thought, Karen seems like a star-cookie person. So, she pointed at it.
Karen glanced down, smiled, and nodded. “Good pick. Those are one of my favourites.”
She started pulling ingredients from the cupboards—flour, sugar, vanilla extract, eggs—and laid them out on the counter, explaining each one to Robin as she grabbed them.
When Karen started creaming the butter, Robin took the flour and sifted it, focusing way too hard on keeping it inside the bowl and not all over the counter.
“You’re doing just fine,” Karen murmured, her hand brushing Robin’s elbow as she passed behind her. “Go slow, okay?”
Robin almost dropped the sifter.
Karen moved on like it was nothing, showing her how to dust the counter with flour. She explained why they couldn’t over-mix the dough unless they wanted hard cookies, and how chilling the dough kept them from spreading little pancakes.
Robin nodded along, soaking up every word. Her own mom had never talked to her like this before. She never slowed down for her, never used soft nicknames, never reached out just to guide her hand or touch an elbow.
Once the cookies came out of the oven, Robin hovered near the cooling rack, holding her hands behind her back. The cookies were perfect, with golden edges, soft centres, and a warm vanilla smell that made just about anyone swoon. Of course they were perfect. Karen had been involved.
Robin cleared her throat. “So…uh. Are we—like—allowed to try one? Or do we need…I don’t know, the Cookie Council to give us the official thumbs up?”
Karen turned to her, and Robin’s stomach sank. There was a look in her eyes she had never seen before. It looked like she was about to scold her.
Oh shit. Was sampling not allowed?
“Robin,” Karen said, pausing long enough to make Robin consider interrupting her to apologize, “why on earth would I ever stop you from eating anything in my kitchen?”
Robin blinked.
Oh.
She wasn’t mad. She wasn’t disappointed. She wasn’t anything like Robin had feared.
“Oh. Right. Yeah. Obviously. I knew that.”
She absolutely did not know that.
She laughed awkwardly and reached for one of the star-shaped cookies. Her hand hovered for a second before she forced herself to grab it and take a tiny bite from one of the points.
Karen picked up a cookie too, much more relaxed. She took a small bite from the corner and actually closed her eyes for a moment. When she opened them again, she gave Robin a soft, proud smile.
“These are wonderful,” she said. “You’re a very talented baker, you know.”
“Me? No—no way. Mrs. Wheeler, you did, like…ninety-nine percent of this.”
Karen gave her a light, playful nudge on the arm. “Oh, shush. You’re teasing me again.”
Robin just stared at her for a second. Teasing her? Karen did not get teased. Not by her kids. Not by Ted. Not by anyone. And definitely not by Robin, who was still terrified of accidentally knocking over a mixing bowl.
“Maybe,” Robin said, her cheeks undeniably turning pink. “I just…I don’t know. I guess I like spending time with you.”
Karen’s smile softened, then fell into a small, touched pout. “I like spending time with you too,” she said quietly.
“I mean—your house is just…you know,” Robin said, shrugging. “My place was never really a…home. I like it here. It feels normal. Comfortable.”
Karen didn’t try to offer a quick excuse like most adults would. She just reached out and rested a hand on Robin’s arm, patting it lightly. “You’re always welcome here, honey.”
Robin let it sink in, forcing herself not to overreact. She took another bite of her cookie, slower this time. She licked a bit of sugar off her thumb and tried to memorize her surroundings. The smell of the kitchen, Karen’s perfume drifting over her shoulder, the way Karen had guided her hands earlier, the simple sweetness of someone calling her honey. She wasn’t sure when she’d get this feeling again.
“Hey…um, Mrs. Wheeler?”
She’d practiced this part the whole walk over.
“Yes?”
“Am I ever…bothering you?” she asked, barely getting it out. “When I come over. Or when I talk too much. My mom says I ramble, and Steve says I never shut up, and sometimes I just—I worry I’m…too much.”
“Oh, Robin,” Karen murmured, shaking her head. “You could never bother me.”
Robin blinked at her, stunned enough that she didn’t immediately respond. Usually there was a pause, even a moment of consideration.
“I would never get sick of you,” she added, stepping closer. “You’re a smart girl. You tell me the most fascinating things—your music trivia, the science stuff you think flies over my head. I like listening to you.”
She let out a soft laugh. “It’s nice having someone around who actually wants to talk.”
Robin’s throat suddenly felt scratchy, feeling like she’d swallowed a handful of sand. Her eyes grew blurry as pressure built up behind them. Don’t cry. Don’t cry. Do not cry.
Karen tilted her head to the side, noticing the tension in her face. “Can I give you a hug?”
Fuck. This was it.
Hug stage. Actual physical contact.
The holy grail of emotional milestones.
Robin didn’t even have time to process how ecstatic she was before she nodded. “I—yes. Please. I would really—yes.”
Karen leaned in and wrapped her arms around her, and Robin immediately slid her arms around Karen’s waist, pulling her closer, tightening the hug before she could stop herself. She pressed her forehead against Karen’s shoulder.
Letting herself absorb the warmth of Karen’s sweater, Robin took a deep breath. The scent that hit her reminded her of laundry rooms and candle stores and every imaginary “perfect mom” she’d invented when she was younger.
No one had ever held her like this. Not once. Not her mother, not a teacher, not any adult who was supposed to. It wasn’t like the hugs she remembered from school events when her mother was trying to look like a parent.
She felt safe in this hug.
Maybe Mrs. Wheeler wasn’t her mom. Maybe she’d never get the biological, automatic love she’d spent years pretending she didn’t need.
But Karen was close enough.
She was warm and safe, and just being around her made Robin smile. Karen could make her laugh on days she felt like everything was falling apart. She was someone who didn’t care whose kid she was hugging, didn’t care if Robin had “earned” the affection or not.
And Robin sure as hell loved her for that.