Chapter Text
Wednesday had encouraged a lot of things in this building: efficiency, silence, and a healthy fear of wasting her time.
She sat at the head of a boardroom table that could have comfortably hosted a small war council. A third-party vendor was attempting to renegotiate a contract mid-year. They’d arrived with confidence, a slide deck, and what they thought was leverage.
Wednesday watched them talk like she watched a spider build a web—fascinated by the instinct, unimpressed by the outcome.
She wore black. Obviously. But it wasn’t the usual drama—this was authority. A sharp pantsuit, clean lines. Bone-coloured blouse under it that softened nothing. No jewellery, except her wedding band: matte, dark, easy to miss unless you were close enough to matter. Hair pulled back and plaited tight, like she’d dared it to move.
A pen rested between her fingers. She wasn’t writing. She was waiting.
Across from her, the man in the pale suit kept glancing at his notes. His voice lifted at the end of every sentence. Asking for permission. Begging for agreement without meaning to.
“—and as you can see,” he said, gesturing at a chart that looked like it had been designed by someone afraid of colour, “this adjustment is reasonable and in line with market movement.”
Wednesday tapped the pen once against the table.
In the silence that followed, you could hear the room exhale without meaning to.
She lifted her gaze.
“No,” she said.
A couple of them blinked, waiting for the rest of the sentence.
There wasn’t one.
“Pardon?” the man managed, smile wobbling at the edges.
“No,” Wednesdayrepeated, calm as anything. "You will honour the contract you signed. Or we will replace you with someone who can.”
One of his colleagues opened his mouth. Wednesday’s eyes flicked to him. He closed it again.
The meeting kept going. Wednesday was very good at taking someone’s urgency and turning it into something… embarrassing.
That was why the interruption landed like a crack.
The doors opened without a knock.
Not a slam. Not a rush. Just—opened, smooth and sure.
And her assistant stepped in.
“Ms Addams,” Gina said. “Your wife is here.”
Wednesday didn’t move.
For a second the only thing that changed was her jaw—tightening, like her body had reacted before her mind caught up. Then her eyes lifted, just slightly.
Confusion first. A rare guest.
Enid didn’t come here. Enid hated corporate buildings. Enid hated expensive carpet and the sense that you were meant to behave a certain way to be allowed in. Enid loved Wednesday’s ambition, sure—but she liked it best at home, where she could pull it apart with noise and kisses and sun.
Enid did not come here.
Around the table, the vendor team stalled mid-breath. Someone coughed and swallowed it. Someone sat up straighter.
Wednesday’s stomach did, too.
Her gaze dropped to her phone beside the notepad. (comment on w having an old phone here?)
Face down.
She flipped it over.
The screen lit up like a confession.
ENID (7)
SCHOOL OFFICE (3)
ENID (2)
Something in her chest went cold.
Her fingers tightened around the phone hard enough that the case creaked.
She had put it on silent because the meeting mattered. Because the contract mattered. Because someone was trying to move numbers and she needed to be fully present.
A date surfaced first. An appointment? A pickup time misjudged?
Then the other thought rose up, immediate and ugly.
The children.
Her chair barely made a sound when she stood.
“Pause,” Wednesday said, standing. “Five minutes.”
No one questioned it.
She was already moving, phone in hand, boots striking the floor with quiet intent.
The corridor outside the boardroom was quiet, cushioned by thick walls and flooring designed to swallow sound. Gina (her assistant) waited just beyond the doors. For a brief, unwanted moment, Wednesday wondered how the interaction had gone.
Enid had never met Gina. That alone made it notable as Gina occupied more of Wednesday’s working life than almost anyone else.
Enid had stepped into a part of Wednesday’s life that was usually sealed off. A place where Wednesday was precise, unreadable, and rarely required to explain herself. The thought of Enid seeing that version of her, unfiltered and out of context, stirred a low tension she didn’t bother to name.
Wednesday preferred her worlds kept separate unless she chose otherwise.
“She’s in your office,” Gina said.
Wednesday’s stride sharpened. “How long?”
“Two minutes.”
Two minutes was enough time for Enid to apologise to three people and offer to reschedule a meeting she didn’t have.
Wednesday reached her office doors and pushed them open.
Her office was not large for the sake of vanity. It was large because space intimidated people. The windows ran floor to ceiling and looked out over the city. Behind her desk, shelves of dark wood held files, awards, books that had never been bought for decoration. Everything had a purpose.
In the corner, a drinks cabinet stood like a quiet threat. Inside, bottles of whiskey and bourbon were lined with obsessive neatness.
Her desk was tidy. Almost sterile.
Except for the photographs.
They were subtle. Just three small, matte black frames angled where she could see them when she sat down.
One was their wedding day. Enid in white, laughing so hard her shoulders shook. Wednesday beside her in black, expression like she’d just won something dangerous.
One was Mateo as a baby, asleep in Wednesday’s arms. He’d been so small, so unbelievably quiet, that Wednesday had stared at him for hours like she was trying to understand what she’d made.
The third was Vesper at five, standing in the backyard with mud on her knees and her hands held up like claws, grinning wide enough to show every tooth.
Enid stood in front of the desk, not fidgeting, not pacing. Just still in a way that looked like she was holding herself together on purpose.
There was paint on her jeans. A faint smear along her wrist. A speck of dried colour near her sleeve cuff. She looked like she’d come straight from a job and hadn’t even thought to fix herself up—just grabbed her keys and gone.
Which meant the call had scared her.
That landed harder than it should have.
Enid lifted her gaze.
“Wednesday,” she said.
Not a greeting. Not a question. Just… you. Here. Now.
Wednesday felt the difference immediately—the version of Enid she’d left at home before dawn, warm and half-asleep, and the one standing here now with her shoulders tight and her mouth set.
Enid drew a breath, like she was about to apologise for something that wasn’t her fault.
Wednesday cut in before she could.
“Are you alright?”
It cut the moment clean in half.
Enid’s shoulders dropped a fraction. Not relief exactly—more like… she hadn’t realised she needed to be asked that.
“I am,” Enid said. Then, after a beat, honest and quiet: “I think.”
Wednesday noticed the way Enid’s gaze wandered—and tightened immediately.
She moved first.
“Sit,” Wednesday said, already turning, already pulling one of the chairs out from the desk.
Enid blinked, then nodded, perching on the edge of the chair as if unsure whether she was allowed to settle. Wednesday waited until she did. Only then did she take her own seat, angling it just enough to close the distance between them.
The glass door slid shut behind them with a muted click. Gina was gone.
Wednesday registered the faint hitch in Enid’s posture—the awareness of paint on denim, of being in a space that hadn’t been built for softness or colour or apology. Wednesday felt an unexpected flare of irritation at the room for causing it.
She leaned back slightly, grounding the moment.
“You want anything?” Wednesday asked quietly. “Water. Tea.”
Enid shook her head, a faint smile tugging at her mouth despite herself. Then it slipped away.
Her attention snapped back where it belonged.
“The school called,” Enid said. “They asked me to come in. They said they needed both of us.”
Wednesday felt the change immediately.
“They wouldn’t tell me why,” Enid added, quieter now.
Wednesday leaned forward, forearms resting lightly on the desk, closing the space between them.
“Which child,” she asked, voice calm and steady.
And just like that, the office stopped mattering.
“Vesper,” Enid said. She kept her voice steady, but the name carried its own gravity. “They wouldn’t explain. Just… today. Now.”
This wasn’t routine. This wasn’t a grazed knee or a forgotten lunch or a quick check-in at pick-up. In eight years—through daycare, through prep, through Vesper’s first year and now well into her second—there had never been a call like this. Never a request that required both of them, immediately, in the middle of a school day.
Something had gone wrong.
She glanced down at her phone again, thumb hovering over the screen as the missed calls stared back.
A thin, unwelcome line of guilt tightened in Wednesday’s chest.
Enid stayed where she was for a moment, letting the office assert itself around her. The height. The quiet. The way the city sat beyond the glass. She took in the dark shelves, the clean lines, the absence of anything unnecessary.
It was all so unmistakably Wednesday it almost made her smile.
She looked down at her jeans, the faint smear of paint at the knee, then back up at her wife.
“Well,” she said lightly—not quite joking, not quite apologising, “I definitely don’t belong in here.”
Wednesday turned toward her fully. “You do.”
Enid huffed, unconvinced. “I smell like turps.”
“That is not disqualifying,” Wednesday replied. “Several people upstairs smell like panic.”
That earned a flicker of a smile.
Wednesday reached for her phone, already shifting gears. She tapped the desk once, sharp and economical, then reached for the intercom.
“Gina.”
It took less than a second.
“Yes, Mrs Addams.”
“Clear my afternoon,” Wednesday said. No hesitaiton. “Push the vendor meeting. Reschedule anything urgent. I’ll review documents tonight if i must.”
“Understood,” Gina replied. “I’ll update the board and legal.”
“Thank you.”
The line went dead.
Enid hadn’t spoken. She just watched.
She watched the way Wednesday didn’t raise her voice, didn’t explain herself, didn’t soften the directive.
It still caught her off guard sometimes.
Enid stayed where she was, fingers loosely laced in her lap, but her eyes lifted—really lifted—to take Wednesday in. The suit. The posture.
“You’re… a lot,” Enid said quietly, not quite teasing. “In here.”
Wednesday tilted her head slightly. “Is that a complaint.”
“No,” Enid said, a small smile tugging at her mouth. “It’s intimidating. And—” She paused, then added honestly, “unfairly attractive.”
For the briefest moment, colour touched Wednesday’s cheekbones. She turned just slightly and cleared her throat. “It’s context,” she said.
“Still,” Enid went on, softer now, “maybe one day I’ll come visit this world again. Under better circumstances. Without paint on my jeans.”
“That can be arranged,” Wednesday replied. “You may keep the paint.”
Enid smiled, warmth blooming despite herself.
The glass door slid open again, smooth and controlled, and Gina stepped back inside. “I’ve moved the remaining meetings to later in the week,” she said.
“Good,” Wednesday replied.
Gina nodded once, then let her gaze lift and this time settling briefly on Enid.
Enid noticed things without meaning to. The way Gina held herself—straight-backed but relaxed. She was young, yes, but not in a way that read as inexperienced.
Enid found herself wondering, briefly, what Wednesday had shared of her outside this building. Whether Gina knew her name only because it appeared on a calendar, or because Wednesday had spoken it in passing. Whether she knew there were two children. Whether Wednesday talked about home at all—or kept that part of herself as sealed as everything else in this place.
Gina’s attention held to Wednesday, professional and focused. There was respect there. Clear, earned. Not anything that reached beyond its boundaries. Whatever admiration existed stayed firmly within the lines of work and trust.
It should have reassured Enid.
And it did (mostly).
Gina inclined her head once and stepped back, the glass door sliding shut behind her.
Enid exhaled quietly.
Wednesday turned back to her, expression already softer, the edges filed down now that the room was no longer watching.
The quiet that followed carried more weight than the teasing had. It settled in, drawing Enid’s thoughts back to where they’d been circling all morning.
Her voice lowered. “What if we missed something,” she said. “What if she’s not okay and we didn’t notice because she’s… good at hiding it?”
Wednesday didn’t answer immediately.
She reached for Enid’s bag, lifting it from the chair and setting it aside with care, then offered her hand.
Enid took it.
Wednesday drew her to her feet with calm certainty, keeping her close.
“If there were something to see,” Wednesday said quietly, “we would see it.”
Enid searched her face. “And if we missed it?”
Wednesday’s grip tightened just slightly. “Then we address it.”
It wasn’t reassurance, it was a promise.
Enid leaned down without asking, resting her forehead against Wednesday’s shoulder. Just for a moment. Long enough to breathe. Wednesday shifted slightly to meet her, one hand coming up to rub slow, steady circles along Enid’s arm—a reminder that she wasn’t carrying this alone.
Enid breathed out, the tension easing. When she lifted her head, her voice was steadier.
“Careful,” she mumbled softly. “Your reputation might crumble. They’d all see you’re just… pathetically in love with your wife.”
“They already know that.”
Something in Enid’s chest tightened. She nodded once, accepting it, grounding herself in the solidity of Wednesday standing there, unmoved and unwavering.
Wednesday squeezed her hand once. “Come.”
Enid nodded. “Okay. Thank you.”
Wednesday reached for her coat. “You are my wife,” she said evenly. “They are our children. This is not a favour.”
Enid swallowed and inclined her head. “I know.”
They walked out together.
The lift doors slid open into the lobby and people moved around them like water around stone—parting without quite knowing why. A few heads turned. Wednesday Addams didn’t often move through public spaces with someone who looked like warmth and colour made human.
They stepped into the lift just as the doors began to close.
“Hold it.”
Wednesday reached out automatically, palm flattening against the sensor.
A man stepped in—mid-fifties, sharp suit, silver through his hair. His attention went to Wednesday first.
“Ma’am.”
Wednesday inclined her head. “Good morning.”
His gaze shifted then—brief, curious—taking in Enid, just a fraction longer than courtesy allowed.
Enid felt it and, without thinking, took a small step back—toward the corner, toward invisibility.
Wednesday noticed.
She moved with her instead—not to shield, not to hide—but to close the space. Her hand settled at the small of Enid’s back, light but decisive, keeping her exactly where she was.
The man’s focus snapped neatly back to business.
“I reviewed the updated projections,” he said. “Legal’s pushing back on clause seventeen again.”
“They would,” Wednesday replied.
He nodded. “Still, they’ll want your sign-off before end of week.”
“They’ll have it,” Wednesday said.
“Yes, ma’am.” A pause. “The board metting has been moved to Thursday.”
Wednesday’s jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. “Noted.”
Enid stood very still, aware of the hand at her back.
The lift slowed.
“I won’t keep you,” the man said, already pulling out his phone. “Ma’am.”
Wednesday nodded in response.
He stepped out. The doors slid shut. Silence followed.
Wednesday didn’t move her hand right away.
Enid let out a slow breath. “Wow,” she murmured. Then, with the faintest curve to her mouth, “No wonder you iron your shirts.”
Wednesday’s gaze stayed forward. “He reports to me.”
Enid’s smile deepened, just a touch. “Mm. Bossy.”
Wednesday glanced at her from the corner of her eye. “You’re enjoying this.”
“A little,” Enid admitted quietly. “Very… authoritative.”
The lift chimed and opened. Wednesday stepped out first and held the door.
Enid followed, the sound of her shoes momentarily out of place among the quiet authority of heels and leather soles.
“Thank you, ma’am,” Enid said quietly, perfectly straight-faced.
Wednesday rolled her eyes and angled instinctively toward the staff elevators—keycard access at the ready. She laced their fingers together as they crossed the lobby together when Enid slowed.
“Hey,” Enid said gently, giving their joined hands a small tug. “I parked outside. On the street.”
Wednesday stopped.
Her gaze flicked once toward the staff entrance ahead, then back to Enid.
Enid caught the pause and smiled, small and knowing. “Sorry.”
Then, more practically, “We’ll have to take two cars back?”
Wednesday considered that for half a second. “I’ll come with you.”
Enid laughed under her breath. “You say that now.” She tilted her head. “You won’t once you see the inside of the car.”
“I cleaned it,” Wednesday replied.
“Yes,” Enid agreed easily. “A week ago.” Her mouth curved. “We have children.”
Wednesday had no immediate rebuttal.
They stepped out onto the street together, the city louder here—traffic rolling past, footsteps overlapping, a delivery truck idling too close to the curb. Enid’s car sat where she’d left it, squeezed into a narrow space.
A pale SUV. Practical. Chosen for safety ratings and boot space rather than aesthetics. The back seats still held booster steats, properly anchored, one decorated with a slightly crooked wolf sticker peeling at the edge. A canvas tote slumped on the floor with spare jumpers and a forgotten library book. Even with the doors closed, the faint smell of sunscreen and apples lingered.
Enid called it her soccer mum car.
Wednesday had never understood this, given neither of their children played soccer.
And unmistakably—
Ticketed.
Enid stopped short. “Oh—”
Wednesday’s gaze followed hers to the thin white slip tucked under the wiper, fluttering faintly in the breeze.
“I’m sorry,” Enid said immediately, already reaching for it. “I panicked. I didn’t even think.”
Wednesday looked at her. A steady glance that made it clear this did not require an apology.
Enid’s shoulders loosened as she peeled the ticket free and tucked it into her pocket. She glanced over, sheepish. “I could drive you in tomorrow. Save you the train.”
Wednesday didn’t answer. She reached out instead, palm open.
Enid blinked, then placed the keys into her hand without comment.
Wednesday moved around the car and slid into the driver’s seat, adjusting it with habitual precision. Only once the door shut did she looked over.
“I’ll get an Uber,” Wednesday said.
Enid’s mouth curved. “Pity. The Uber won’t be as charming, or know exactly which turns you hate.”
“It will also not smell like socks,” Wednesday replied calmly.
Enid laughed, shaking her head. “Rude. For the record, the Uber also won’t bring snacks, emotional support, or impeccable playlists.”
Wednesday pulled the car smoothly out of the space. “It will bring silence.”
Enid settled back in her seat, smiling.
The drive out of the city took just under thirty minutes on a good day—long enough for the glass and steel to fall away, short enough that Wednesday never felt cut off from it. The skyline thinned, roads widening, traffic loosening its grip as the pace softened into something liveable.
It hadn’t been an accident.
When Wednesday was pregnant, Enid had researched neighbourhoods the way she researched everything—thoroughly, obsessively, with colour-coded notes and tabs open at three in the morning. She wanted somewhere that felt safe without feeling stifling, close enough to the city that Wednesday could still work late if she needed to, far enough out that children could exist loudly without consequence. Good schools. Green space. Streets where kids rode bikes and neighbours noticed if something felt off but didn’t feel entitled to your life.
Their street was calm. Watchful. People waved when you passed. Privacy was respected.
Wednesday liked it because no one tried to be her friend.
Enid liked it because the bakery two blocks away remembered her name, asked after the kids, and slipped an extra pastry into the bag when it was late in the day.
Their life fit here.
As the destination due closer, Enid grew quiet.
Her gaze fixed on the passing streets without really seeing them. One hand rested in her lap, fingers absently tracing the seam of her jeans.
Wednesday noticed immediately.
She didn’t say anything at first. She let the silence sit, let it breathe. Her own thoughts had drifted inward too, turning over possibilities with the kind of cold, methodical focus she reserved for problems that mattered.
Enid inhaled, like she was about to speak.
Then stopped.
Wednesday kept her eyes on the road and waited.
A full block passed. Then another.
Finally—
“What if…” Enid began, then trailed off, shaking her head slightly.
Wednesday’s voice stayed calm, patient. “What if.”
Enid swallowed. “What if she doesn’t have any friends.”
She turned her face toward the window again, voice quieter now. “I know she’s different. And I don’t just mean the werewolf stuff. That part—she’s grown up with that. It’s… everything else.”
Wednesday’s hands tightened slightly on the steering wheel.
“She’s eight and she talks like she’s fifty.”
She smiled a little, tired and fond. “She doesn’t just like facts. She sort of… lives in them. Trees, ants, space—whatever’s in front of her. She talks like everyone’s excited to listen too, and sometimes she doesn’t realise when they aren’t. She’s got so much energy. She really wants to connect. And sometimes I worry she’s trying a bit too hard—like she thinks she has to be everything at once so people won’t leave.”
Wednesday listened, jaw tight, chest aching in a way she didn’t have words for yet.
“She recounts her days in detail,” Wednesday said. “Names. Moments. Laughter. That is not the language of a child being overlooked.”
Enid nodded, but the worry didn’t fully lift. “I know. I know she sounds happy.”
A beat passed.
Then Enid’s voice dropped. “But… no one came to her party. Remember?”
Wednesday remembered. She remembered everything.
The invites. The silence. The way Enid had kept smiling while her heart cracked quietly. The way Wednesday had pivoted without hesitation—family called in, plans rewritten, the house filled until the absence was drowned out.
Vesper had been ecstatic. Overstimulated. Certain it had been perfect.
But Wednesday had seen the moment Enid turned away, had felt the sharp, helpless anger of knowing joy had been salvaged rather than shared.
“She was happy,” Wednesday said, steady but not dismissive. “She still is.”
Enid swallowed. “I just don’t want that happiness to be built on us fixing things behind the scenes forever.”
Wednesday didn’t answer.
She reached across the console, her hand closing over Enid’s.
Her gaze stayed on the road ahead, jaw set, eyes dark with something uncharacteristically unguarded. A quiet, rising protectiveness—sharp and unfamiliar, edged with the fear she rarely allowed herself to name.
Her thumb brushed once over Enid’s knuckles. That was all.
The car continued on, the neighbourhood drawing closer, both of them carrying the same thought now—
Please let her be okay.
The school came into view at the end of a long, quiet street lined with jacaranda trees and tightly parked cars. It was the middle of the day, well before lunch, and the place had a different energy than it did at drop-off or pick-up.
The noise still hit hard.
Not the end-of-day roar, but the constant background hum of children existing together. A whistle somewhere. A shout that turned into laughter. A teacher’s sharp call cutting through it like a blade.
Wednesday’s mouth tightened almost imperceptibly.
The smell followed the moment they stepped out—freshly cut grass, warm concrete, sunscreen, something faintly sweet and sticky that suggested juice or fruit long since spilled.
She had only been here a handful of times—the first-day tour, an award night, a school play. Not for lack of care or effort, but because the environment was calibrated for a kind of social endurance she did not possess.
Enid did. She volunteered, chatted, remembered names, turned noise into connection. Wednesday let her lead there, confident in the balance they’d built.
The front office was cool and quiet by comparison. A reception desk, a few chairs, walls crowded with student artwork arranged into forced cheerfulness. A woman behind the desk looked up with a polite smile that wavered as she took them in.
“Mrs Sinclair?” she said, then hesitated. “And… Mrs Addams.”
Enid nodded immediately. “Hi. We got a call.”
“Yes,” the receptionist said, already standing. “The principal is expecting you.”
They were led down a hallway lined with posters about kindness and resilience, every one of them rendered in overly friendly fonts that made Wednesday’s teeth itch.
Wednesday’s gaze flicked from door to door as they passed—small desks, bright pencil cases, carefully arranged chaos.
She did not see Vesper.
Enid’s tension tightened with every step.By the time they stopped outside the principal’s office, Enid’s hands were curled like she didn’t know what to do with them.
Inside, the atmosphere shifted immediately—cooler, quieter, deliberately adult. Neutral tones. Framed certificates. A window cracked just enough to let air in but keep the world out. Mrs Hartley stood as they entered, composed and practiced.
“Mrs Sinclair. Mrs Addams,” she said, gesturing to the chairs opposite her desk. “Thank you for coming in so quickly.”
Enid sat like she might bolt back up any second. Wednesday sat like she’d been invited to cross-examine a witness.
Mrs Hartley folded her hands neatly on the desk. “I want to start by saying we care very deeply about Vesper. She’s an extraordinary student—bright, engaged, curious—”
“Is she being bullied?” Enid blurted.
It came out rougher than she meant it to. She barely took a breath before the rest followed.
“Because if she is, we can—whatever we need to do, meetings, changes, I just need to know. They wouldn’t tell me anything.”
Mrs Hartley blinked, genuinely caught off guard, then softened immediately. “No. No, Mrs Sinclair.” She lifted a hand, steadying. “I promise you—that is not what this is.”
Enid froze. “It’s… not?”
“In fact,” Mrs Hartley said carefully, a small smile starting, “it’s almost the opposite.”
Enid glanced sideways at Wednesday, confusion replacing panic for half a second.
Wednesday’s voice stayed level. “Then why are we here.”
Mrs Hartley exhaled quietly—choosing precision over comfort. “There was an incident early this morning. A situation that escalated… socially.”
Enid leaned forward, heart back in her throat. “Was someone hurt?”
“No,” Mrs Hartley said quickly. “Nothing physical. No injuries.”
Enid let out a breath.
“The concern,” Mrs Hartley continued, “is not that Vesper is isolated. It’s that she is influential.”
That stopped both of them.
“She has—over time—gathered a very close group of classmates around her,” Mrs Hartley explained. “Children who seek her out. Listen to her. Follow her lead. Vesper refers to them as her… ‘pack.’”
Enid’s mouth fell open before she could stop it. “Oh my God.”
Wednesday’s eyes narrowed slightly.
Mrs Hartley met Enid’s gaze gently. “Mrs Sinclair… Vesper was the cause of the distress.”
The room went very still.
Enid blinked. “I’m sorry—what?”
“We’re aware Vesper comes from a unique background,” Mrs Hartley said, careful.
Wednesday’s gaze sharpened, but Enid stayed locked forward, like if she interrupted she’d miss something important.
“We are fully committed to inclusion,” Mrs Hartley continued. “However, using fear to manage social situations—particularly to exclude other students—is not acceptable.”
Enid’s colour drained. “Fear?”
Wednesday’s mouth twitched.
Enid snapped her head toward her instantly. The look she gave her was small but lethal.
Do not.
Wednesday’s expression went blank again like a door shutting.
Mrs Hartley’s voice firmed. “This morning, Vesper led her group in deliberately isolating another child. She positioned herself between the child and her classmates, bared her teeth, and showed her fangs.”
Enid’s hand flew to her mouth.
“She told the child,” Mrs Hartley went on, even, (and I quote) “‘Stop snivelling and acting like prey,’ and implied that continued behaviour would result in everyone knowing she was weak.”
WWednesday’s gaze dipped briefly—just long enough to hide whatever passed behind it.
“She was,” Mrs Hartley said carefully, “remarkably persuasive. Intimidating. The other child felt cornered. Several students were visibly shaken.”
Enid stared at the desk, horrified.
“Vesper is not lacking friends. If anything, she has many. What we need to address is how she’s choosing to lead them.”
Enid pressed her palms together, mortified, overwhelmed. “She’s eight.”
“Yes,” Mrs Hartley agreed. “And she carries authority well beyond her age.”
Enid closed her eyes. “That’s… not comforting.”
Mrs Hartley offered a small, sympathetic smile. “No. But it is something we can guide.”
Wednesday’s gaze remained steady. “What are the consequences.”
Mrs Hartley blinked, thrown by the directness, then recovered. “We’d like Vesper to apologise to the student involved,” she said carefully. “At the moment she’s… resistant. And we’d like to work with you on strategies—ways to help her understand boundaries and the impact of her behaviour.”
Enid nodded too quickly, cheeks burning. “Yes. Absolutely. Whatever you need. We’ll—yes.”
“We’re not trying to shame her,” Mrs Hartley added, softer. “She is remarkable. Truly. We just need to ensure she’s safe—and that the other children feel safe around her.”
Enid swallowed. “Would it be better if we took her home?” The question slipped out before she could polish it. “Just… for today.”
Mrs Hartley considered it. “That may be wise,” she said. “She’s asked to go home.”
Enid’s jaw tightened. Something pained flickered across her face. “Okay.”
“I’ll go and bring her to you,” Mrs Hartley said, standing.
She stepped out and closed the door quietly behind her.
The silence that followed was thick and awkward and too loud.
Enid turned to Wednesday, mortified, voice dropping into a loud whisper anyway.
“She’s not being bullied,” she hissed. “She’s—she is the bully.”
Wednesday’s eyes were sharp, bright with something dangerous. She kept it leashed.
Enid dragged a hand through her hair. “This is not what I thought we were walking into.” Her voice cracked on the last word and she hated it.
“No,” Wednesday said quietly.
"
Enid inhaled hard, forcing herself into motion. “We need to talk to her properly. And honestly—” she swallowed, already thinking in logistics because it was easier than feeling— “we should get Mateo too. There’s no point doing two trips.”
Wednesday nodded once.
They left the office together.
And there she was.
Vesper was sitting on one of the tiny reception chairs, legs swinging because they couldn’t quite reach the floor. Her uniform still looked a size too big—navy pinafore hanging a little crooked, white shirt tucked in but not evenly. One sock had already slipped down. Her shoes were still shiny. Too shiny.
Her hair was in two neat low pigtails.
She looked… small.
Until you looked at her face.
Wide dark eyes. Freckles. That stillness again. The kind that didn’t belong in a child who still slept with a nightlight.
Then she saw Enid.
Then the composure cracked.
Her mouth wobbled, guilt washing over her in a visible wave. She shrank back into the chair. Suddenly the picture of a child who knew she’d crossed a line.
Guilt is loud on children.
Enid crossed the space and crouched in front of her, voice shifting into mum voice—low, calm, unmistakably serious.
“Vesper,” she said, and her voice had shifted. Not sharp. Not loud. Just solid. “We’re going home. And we are going to talk about what happened.”
Vesper’s lower lip caught between her teeth. She nodded once, small.
Enid leaned in just a little more. “This isn’t a quick chat,” she said. “This is a proper one. Do you understand?”
“Yes,” Vesper whispered.
But her eyes had already slid past Enid.
To Wednesday.
.
Wednesday stood just behind Enid, posture straight, hands loosely clasped in front of her. From a distance she looked composed. Neutral. Almost bored.
Up close, her eyes were not neutral.
There was something there. Sharp. Curious. The faintest flicker of—impressive.
It was gone almost as soon as it appeared.
But Vesper saw it.
Her mouth twitched. Just slightly. A quick, traitorous almost-smirk that she tried to swallow.
Enid felt the shift without seeing it.
She turned her head just enough. “No,” she said gently but firmly. “Eyes on me.”
Vesper swallowed and looked back, the smirk gone as fast as it had appeared.
Behind them, Wednesday exhaled through her nose. Barely audible.
Enid stood slowly. “Your mother is going to grab Mateo,” she said, glancing over her shoulder giving Wednesday a look.
Wednesday met Vesper’s eyes and gave her one look. Listen to your mum.
Then she turned and walked down the corridor toward Mateo’s classroom, footsteps measured, leaving Enid and Vesper in the bright, too-quiet reception area with its plastic chairs and overly cheerful artwork watching them from the walls.
Wednesday found Mateo’s classroom without hesitation.
Left corridor. Second door past the drinking fountain that never quite stopped dripping. She could have walked it blind. Nothing involving her children ever stayed vague in her mind.
She didn’t knock.
She opened the door and stepped inside. The classroom noise dipped by a fraction.
Mateo looked up immediately.
For a second, his face was neutral. Then it changed. A small smile. Careful. Private. Because it wasn’t usually her who came in the middle of the day.
His mismatched eyes caught the light as he stood: one bright blue like Enid’s, the other deep brown like Wednesday’s. His freckles stood out against warm tan skin, and his dark, stubborn curls had already escaped whatever careful effort he’d made that morning to tame them. (edit?)
He pushed his chair in properly before collecting his bag, movements precise and habitual. When he reached Wednesday’s side, his hand slid into hers without hesitation.
“Mrs Addams?” Miss Alvarez looked up from her desk, startled. “Is everything—?”
“We’re leaving,” Wednesday said calmly.
Mateo glanced up at her, then back at his teacher. “Thank you for today, Miss.”
Miss Alvarez blinked, then smiled. “Of course, Mateo.”
They stepped back into the corridor. The classroom door closed with a soft click behind them.
Mateo walked beside her quietly, his hand warm in hers. He didn’t ask questions straight away.
Wednesday felt the familiar, uneasy recognition settle in her chest.
He moved through the world the way she did—observant, contained, careful with words. It worried her sometimes.
But Mateo was not only hers.
Where Wednesday held her thoughts tight and sharp, Mateo carried a softness she still struggled to understand. He felt for people without needing to dissect why. He was structured and gentle at the same time.
After a few steps, he spoke. “Is Vesper in trouble.”
It wasn’t quite a question. More… confirmation.
“She made a poor decision,” Wednesday said.
Mateo nodded once. Accepted it. Filed it away. “She does that sometimes.”
Wednesday’s mouth twitched despite herself.
She squeezed his hand once. Brief. Intentional.
They crossed the car park into the glare of midday sun. Enid’s SUV waited near the edge.
Enid already had Vesper halfway into the back seat.
“Foot in first, Ves — no, other one — okay,” Enid muttered gently, voice steady even though her shoulders were still tight. She tugged the straps straight, checked the buckle once. Then again. She always checked twice.
Vesper didn’t argue. She climbed in quietly, chin tucked, hands folded in her lap. The bravado from earlier had evaporated somewhere between the principal’s office and the car.
Mateo slowed when he saw Enid. Her face softened immediately.
He slipped out of Wednesday’s hand and went to her without a word. Enid cupped his cheek automatically, thumb brushing over freckles she’d memorised years ago.
“Hey,” she murmured. “Good day?”
He nodded.
She smiled at that. Helped him up into his seat. Adjusted the strap. Smoothed his curls back even though they’d spring forward again in ten seconds.
Wednesday was already in the driver’s seat, adjusting the mirrors with quiet precision. Engine on. Hands steady.
Vesper watched from the other side of the back seat, arms folded, pretending she wasn’t watching anything at all.
“Can you put music on?” she asked, too casual. “Please.”
Wednesday glanced up at the rear-view mirror. Their eyes met.
The look said: Yea right.
Vesper huffed and looked out the window.
Enid shut Mateo’s door and walked around to the passenger side, letting out a breath she hadn’t realised she was holding.
She got in and glanced over at Wednesday.
“Home?” she asked quietly.
“Yes,” Wednesday said.
The car eased out onto the road, the school shrinking behind them in the mirrors.
Vesper leaned back against the seat, legs tucked up, one shoe hooked over the other. She wasn’t sulking exactly. More… stewing. Her mouth opened once like she was about to speak, then shut again.
Mateo sat beside her, hands folded neatly.He stared out the window like he was cataloguing houses.
Enid lasted about thirty seconds.
“Okay,” she said, gentle but not soft. “Talk to me.”
Vesper sighed back, louder and far more theatrical. “I am talking. You just haven’t asked the right question yet.”
She let out a quiet sigh—half patience, half here we go—and glanced at the rear-view mirror.
“What happened,” Enid said again. “In your words.”
Vesper shifted so she was facing forward properly, chin tipped up.
“There was crying,” she said. “It was getting annoying.”
Enid met her gaze in the mirror. “And what did you do about it?”
“I fixed it.”
“How.”
“I told my friends to move.” Vesper shrugged. “They listen to me.”
That part wasn’t bragging. It was just true.
“And when the other kid didn’t move?”
Vesper hesitated, like she was deciding how much to say.
“I told her she couldn’t sit with us.”
“How.”
Vesper groaned. “Mama.”
“That’s still not an answer.”
A beat.
“I said she wasn’t part of my pack.”
The word hung in the car.
Wednesday’s grip on the wheel tightened a fraction.
Enid took a breath. “And why wasn’t she part of it?”
“Because she doesn’t know how to act,” Vesper said, like that should settle it.
“Explain.”
“She cries. And makes everything weird. And doesn’t listen when you tell her to stop.”
Enid’s jaw worked once. “And that means?”
“That means she’s not ready,” Vesper said. “Not everyone is.”
Ready for what.
Enid didn’t say it out loud. Not yet.
“You showed your teeth,” she said instead.
Vesper looked away. “I didn’t bite her.”
“That’s not the point.”
“It worked,” Vesper muttered. “She stopped.”
“That doesn’t make it right,” Enid said. “It makes it easier. Those aren’t the same thing.”
Vesper crossed her arms. “You don’t get it.”
“Then help me,” Enid said. “What does being in your pack mean.”
Vesper actually thought about it.
“It means you get invited places,” she said. “You get to come to my house. Not everyone does.”
The car went very still.
Wednesday’s eyes flicked across to Enid.
Enid felt it land all at once.
“And the party,” Enid said quietly. “Is that why no one came.”
Vesper’s shoulders dipped. “They weren’t ready yet.”
“Ready for what.”
A pause.
“So you scared them,” Enid said gently. Not accusing. Just… lining it up.
“I didn’t scare them,” Vesper said quickly. “I just told them what would happen.”
Enid waited.
“What would happen,” she asked.
Vesper shifted in her seat. “Don’t get mad.”
Enid didn’t answer.
Vesper sighed. “I said… that my mother would turn them into ghosts.”
Mateo let out a tiny laugh before clapping a hand over his mouth.
“Oh my god,” Enid breathed, covering her face. “Vesper.”
Wednesday’s eyebrow lifted. Just slightly.
She did not smile.
“It worked,” Vesper muttered, smaller now. “They didn’t come.”
Enid dropped her hand and turned fully in her sear to look at her. Really looked at her.
“Listen to me,” she said. Not loud. Not dramatic. Just firm. “Being close to you is not something people earn by being afraid. Friends don’t pass tests. They don’t prove loyalty. If someone stays because they’re scared of losing you…” Her voice caught for a second before she steadied it. “Then they’re not choosing you.”
Vesper swallowed.
“And you don’t use your mother like that,” Enid added. “She is not a threat. She is not a story you tell to control people. That stops now.”
Vesper sank lower in her seat.
Mateo glanced between them. “Mother wouldn’t turn anyone into a ghost,” he said earnestly.
Wednesday flicked him a look.
A beat.
“Unless they deserved it,” Mateo added.
“Correct,” Wednesday said.
“Enough,” Enid said immediately. Final.
She met Vesper’s eyes again. “You don’t get to decide who feels safe. That’s not leadership. That’s control.”
Vesper’s chin wobbled just slightly. “You don’t understand packs.”
Wednesday’s voice came quiet but absolute.
“Do not speak to your mum like that.”
“
Vesper went still.
“You do not question her understanding,” Wednesday continued. “And you do not redefine what a pack is in this family.”
She glanced at the mirror.
“If you are confused about who leads this pack,” she said evenly, “allow me correct you now.”
Enid opened her mouth.
Wednesday kept going.
“This pack exists because your mum holds it together. She keeps it safe. She makes room. She does not need to bare her teeth.”
“It would be both wrong and foolish,” Wednesday went on, “for you to suggest otherwise.”
Silence.
Vesper stared down at her hands.
Mateo shifted. “You could make her a card,” he said quietly.
Vesper leaned toward him. “You’re such a suck-up.”
Mateo entirely unbothered. “Cards work.”
“I’m not making a card,” Vesper muttered.
“Actually,” Enid said, steady again, “that’s a really good idea.”
“Muuum.”
“It means you’ve thought about it,” Enid said. “It means you’re not just saying sorry. You’re doing something.”
Vesper groaned dramatically. “That’s so much effort.”
“Yes,” Enid replied. “That’s why it matters.”
A long pause.
Vesper picked at the seam of her pinafore.
“…Fine,” she muttered. “I’ll make a card.”
Mateo’s mouth curved.
Wednesday said nothing.
But in the mirror, her eyes softened.
Home met them gently.
The front door shut and the house felt different straight away — quieter than it should have been for this time of day. Sunlight stretched across the floor in long strips, catching dust in the air.
It smelled faintly like toast and the lemon spray Enid always used.
Enid dropped her bag on the bench — it slid slightly and she caught it with her foot — and kicked off her shoes without looking. The hallway walls were crowded with photos. None of them posed properly. A beach day where the wind had destroyed Enid’s hair. Mateo mid-blink in his school photo. One of Wednesday at the table, half-smiling like she didn’t know she was being watched.
Plants everywhere. Some thriving. Some… optimistic. A fiddle-leaf fig Enid refused to declare dead.
“Uniforms off,” Enid said, voice already steadier now that they were home. “Wash hands. No snacks until I say so.”
Vesper groaned like she’d been personally betrayed by the concept of hygiene and stomped down the hall, dragging one shoe half off. Mateo slipped his off properly and lined them up against the wall before heading after her.
He paused at the corner and glanced back at Wednesday.
Just a check.
She gave him the smallest nod.
He disappeared.
Wednesday stood in the entry for a second longer than she needed to. She could hear drawers opening. Vesper narrating her own misery upstairs. Water running.
Her shoulders dropped without asking permission.
The kitchen looked like it always did mid-week. Breakfast dishes still in the sink. A tea towel hanging off the oven handle. The half-finished puzzle on the table — pieces grouped neatly, of course.
Mateo’s.
She set her keys down in their exact spot.
The fridge hummed. Somewhere upstairs, a drawer slammed.
Enid came up behind her and slid her arms around her waist without warning. Cheek resting on her shoulder blades. Familiar.
“So,” Enid murmured. “Apparently you turn people into ghosts.”
Wednesday exhaled. “It appears my reputation has expanded.”
“Impressive,” Enid said. “Corporate menace. School legend.”
She flattened her hands against Wednesday’s stomach. “Though everyone knows that in this house…” She paused deliberately. “I’m the alpha.”
Wednesday’s mouth curved.
She didn’t argue.
“Thank you,” Enid added more quietly. “For backing me.”
“That was never in question,” Wednesday said.
Enid stepped around her, close enough to crowd her space just a little.
“You don’t mind,” she said, softer now. “Me taking the lead.”
There was a flicker in Wednesday’s eyes. Quick. Heat and something sharper underneath it.
Enid saw it and grinned.
She kissed her before Wednesday could say something clever.
She kissed her, slow and deliberate—no asking for permission she already had. Warmth first, then pressure. Enid’s mouth moved with easy certainty, patient in the way only confidence could be, her fingers curving around the back of Wednesday’s neck to keep her exactly where she wanted her.
Wednesday stayed still for half a second—pure stubborn principle—then her hand came up and fisted lightly in the fabric at Enid’s hip, pulling her in a fraction closer like she’d decided, fine, if we’re doing this, we’re doing it properly.
It deepened just slightly. Enough to shift the air. Enough that Wednesday’s breath caught, barely.
Enid felt it and smiled into it.
“Ew.”
They broke apart instantly.
Vesper stood at the kitchen entrance, arms crossed, face twisted in deep offence.
Mateo appeared beside her, holding a stack of coloured paper and glitter glue with impressive seriousness. “Were they kissing? Again?”
Enid laughed, breathless now, one hand still half-curled in Wednesday’s jacket. “We’re allowed to kiss.”
“You’re parents.” Vesper said flatly.
Wednesday glanced at her. “You’ll survive.”
“My eyes won’t.”
“They might fall out,” Mateo added solemnly.
Enid laughed again — properly this time — releasing Wednesday to wiped her hands on the tea towel.
“Alright. Enough commentary.”
Vesper hesitated, then shifted her weight, suddenly shy. She clutched the folded card to her chest, fingers smudged with marker and glitter.
“Mama?” she said.
Enid turned fully, giving her whole attention. “Yeah, baby.”
Vesper held the card out with both hands like it was fragile.
“This is… for before.”
Enid knelt without thinking and took it carefully.
When she opened it, the kitchen went quiet.
Four stick-ish figures in crayon. Enid in the middle, hair enormous. Wednesday dark and straight beside her. Mateo neat. Vesper slightly bigger than everyone else.
Above them, in uneven letters and far too much glitter:
PACK LEADER
Enid’s throat tightened.
“I’m sorry,” Vesper said quickly. “For being scary. And for the rules. I didn’t mean to make anyone feel bad. I just thought… I was helping.”
Mateo leaned closer. “I did the letters,” he said. “And the straight lines.”
“The glitter was important,” Vesper muttered.
Mateo stepped closer, voice quiet but clear. “I helped with the letters. And the straight lines. The glitter was her idea.”
“It was important glitter,” Vesper added.
Enid let out a soft, watery laugh and pulled them both into her arms.
“This is perfect,” she said into Vesper’s hair. “Thank you.”
Vesper relaxed immediately. “I’m still good at packs though.”
“We’ll workshop that,” Enid said.
Wednesday stayed where she was, leaning lightly against the counter, watching.
Glitter already on the floor.
Mateo tucked into Enid’s side.
Vesper glowing again now that she’d been forgiven.
And Enid — steady, warm, holding it all together without ever needing to bare her teeth.
The house hummed around them.
It wasn’t perfect.
It was theirs.
And that was enough.