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RS.2.3

RS.2.3

"You didn't ruin his life," I say after a moment, my voice firm. "He ruined his own life."

Sam looks away, her brow furrowed. "But I didn't have to do it. He was already cornered, Mom. The cops were there, he couldn't go anywhere, and I still--" Her voice falters. "I still broke him. That wasn't self-defense. That was... extra."

Her words hang between us, heavy and uncomfortable, and for a moment, I don't know what to say. Because she's right. It wasn't self-defense. It wasn't about survival. And no amount of parental wisdom or platitudes is going to change that.

"Why did I do it?" she asks quietly, almost to herself. "Why did I feel like that was the right thing to do in the moment? It's not like it made anything better. He was already done."

I exhale slowly, leaning back against the low wall. "I don't know, Sam," I admit. "But I think... sometimes, in the heat of the moment, we do things we don't fully understand. Because we're angry, or scared, or because part of us thinks it'll make the pain stop. Or because we want to prove something--to ourselves, or to them."

Her eyes flick up to mine, searching. "Prove what?"

"That we're stronger," I say quietly. "That they can't hurt us anymore. That we're not afraid of them."

She doesn't say anything, but the way her jaw tightens tells me I've hit close to the mark.

Victor never needed a reason to hurt people; it came to him as naturally as breathing. He wasn't some cackling villain twirling his mustache--he was just a man who saw violence as the solution to every problem. The first solution. The easiest one.

I wonder, sometimes, if someone had stopped him earlier--if someone stronger, meaner, had taken him down the way Sam took down McKinley--would it have made a difference? Would it have spared my mother, or me, or his other children? Or would it just have been another act of violence in a long, endless chain? What if someone had stopped his father? What if someone had stopped his father?

I hate that I don't have an answer.

"You're not him, Sam," I say suddenly, my voice sharper than I intended.

Sam blinks, startled. "Who?"

"McKinley," I say, a little too fast. "Or... anyone like him. You're not the kind of person who hurts people just because you can. I know that about you."

Her expression softens, but only slightly. "Then why did it feel so... satisfying?" she asks. "In the moment, it felt like--like I had to do it. Like if I didn't, he'd think he could keep getting away with it."

I hesitate, choosing my words carefully. "Because you're human. And humans have instincts. We want to protect ourselves, our people, our homes. And sometimes those instincts are messy, or ugly, or hard to reconcile with who we think we are."

Sam frowns, her gaze dropping to her hands. "So what? I'm supposed to just... chalk it up to instincts and move on?"

"No," I say firmly. "You're supposed to think about it. To ask yourself why you did it, and whether you'd do it again, and if that's who you want to be."

She looks up, her eyes wary. "And what if I don't like the answers?"

"Then you change them," I say simply. "You're not an automaton. You have free will. Or do you?"

The silence stretches between us again, and I wonder if I've said too much or not enough. I wish I could give her a clear answer, a neat little box to put this in, but life doesn't work that way. It never has. Everything goes quiet, for a couple of minutes.

"Hey, Mom?" she says after a particularly harsh inhale.

"Yeah?"

She looks up at me, her expression tentative. "Thanks. For, you know... not yelling at me. Or saying I'm a bad person."

I smile faintly, brushing a strand of hair out of her face. "You're my daughter, Sam. I'm always going to love you. Even when you mess up. Especially then."

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The smell of fried food and sugary drinks greets us as we gather at one of the park's larger food courts for a late lunch. The kids are red-cheeked and damp-haired, their towels draped haphazardly over their shoulders. Maggie is animatedly recounting a near-miss on one of the tallest slides, waving her hands in a way that makes her fries wobble precariously on the tray.

Stolen story; please report.

Sam listens with a faint smile, nodding at all the right moments but staying quieter than usual. Her wetsuit has been swapped for a baggy hoodie and sweatpants, and she looks more relaxed than I've seen her in weeks, slumped into her chair like she doesn't have to hold herself upright for anyone.

Kate picks at her food, occasionally chiming in when Maggie's exaggerations demand correction. Tasha eats with quiet efficiency, her eyes scanning the bustling food court as though taking mental notes. Jordan alternates between teasing Maggie and sharing knowing looks with Sam, their easy banter filling the gaps in conversation.

Liam sits beside me, nursing a soda while the kids chatter. Ben's returned to his familiar role as snack-distribution manager, divvying up napkins and sauces like he's running a small cafeteria. He even intercepts one of Maggie's wild hand gestures, catching a nearly airborne fry before it hits the floor.

"Did you ever imagine it like this?" Liam asks suddenly, his voice low enough that only I can hear.

I glance at him, noting the tired set of his shoulders, the way his eyes linger on Kate. "Like what?"

"Parenthood," he says, gesturing subtly at the scene before us. "A pack of damp teenagers taking over a water park while we sit here wondering how we got old."

I laugh softly, though it's not as lighthearted as I'd like. "No," I admit. "I didn't imagine it would be like this."

Liam nods, a rueful smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "Sometimes I think... maybe I wasn't cut out for this. For being the dad of someone who's been through what Kate's been through."

"Me too," I say quietly, watching Sam as she reaches for another fry. "I mean... I love her more than anything, but sometimes I wish..." I stop, shaking my head. "Never mind."

He doesn't press, just waits until I find the words.

"Sometimes I wish it wasn't her," I say finally. "That someone else had to... I mean, you saw what happened on the news. At her school. But then I think about how every parent probably feels the same way. How no one wants it to be their kid."

I remind myself, for a second, that Sam probably wouldn't want me spilling her superheroic secrets to her best friend's dad.

Liam hums in agreement. "At least one set of parents somewhere in the world is gonna be disappointed," he says, echoing my thoughts. "Guess we're just the unlucky ones."

"Maybe," I say, though my voice lacks conviction. "Luck, fate, who knows?"

Liam doesn't respond right away, his gaze fixed on Kate. "She'll be okay," he says eventually. "Sam too. They're tougher than we give them credit for."

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The day winds down slowly, the energy of the park fading into a kind of comfortable weariness. The kids gather their things, wet towels and stray flip-flops stuffed haphazardly into bags. Ben supervises the packing process with the same efficiency he brings to unloading the dishwasher, while Liam handles the logistics of locker returns. I take a moment to check that nothing's been forgotten, circling back to grab one of Kate's inhalers that's rolled under a chair.

By the time we make it to the parking lot, the sun is dipping low in the sky, casting long shadows across the rows of cars. The kids are quieter now, their earlier energy dimmed but not extinguished. Maggie yawns loudly as she climbs into the backseat of our car, followed by Jordan and Sam.

The drive home is calmer, the noise of the park replaced by the steady hum of the highway. Maggie dozes off almost immediately, her head lolling against Jordan's shoulder. Jordan scrolls through their phone, the glow of the screen illuminating their face in the dim light. Sam leans against the window, her eyes half-closed, her breath slow and even.

Ben hums softly along to the radio, his fingers drumming lightly on the steering wheel. I rest my head against the seat, letting the rhythm of the tires and the faint scent of chlorine lull me into a peaceful daze.

My thoughts drift, circling back to the conversation I had with Sam earlier. I think about the superheroes I see on the news--the ones who fight monsters and save cities and carry the weight of the world on their shoulders. They're all so young. Most of them in their twenties or thirties. When was it - 1981? 82? That's when the first ones started being born. The oldest ones are only 40-some years old.

I wonder if their parents feel the same way I do. If they wish it had been anyone but their child.

At least one set of parents, somewhere in the world, has to carry that disappointment. Pigeonhole principle and all that, right, Ben?

I glance back at her in the rearview mirror, her head resting against the window, her face softened in sleep. She looks so young in moments like this, so vulnerable, and I wonder how long she can keep walking this path before it takes more from her than she can give.

But then I think about the way she smiled at lunch, the way her shoulders relaxed in the water, the quiet determination in her voice when she said she'd try to do better. And I let myself believe that she's doing the right thing. That's what Moe says. Maybe I should trust him.

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By the time we pull into the driveway, the sky is dark, the neighborhood quiet. Liam's car parks behind us, and I can see Kate and Tasha yawning as they gather their bags.

"Home sweet home," Ben murmurs, stretching as he steps out of the car.

I nudge Sam gently, her eyes fluttering open as she stirs. "We're here, sweetheart," I say softly.

She blinks groggily, her movements slow as she gathers her things. Ben carries most of the bags inside, while I linger by the door, watching as the kids shuffle sleepily into the house.

The warmth of home wraps around me as I step inside, the familiar smell of fresh paint mingling with the faint aroma of coffee from this morning. The house feels full but peaceful, the kind of quiet that only comes after a long, satisfying day.

Sam disappears upstairs with a murmured goodnight, and I hear the faint creak of her bed as she settles in. I pause in the hallway, my hand resting on the banister, and let out a slow, deep breath.