After some warm, quiet family bonding with my little Luna curled against me, I finally straightened up and clapped my hands together softly. "Alright, moonflower," I murmured, brushing her silver‑white hair out of her eyes, "time for homework."
She pouted. Of course she did. She always pouted.
But she still held out her tiny hands, waiting for the enchanted workbook I designed specifically for her—pages that could survive spontaneous transmutation, ink that wouldn't turn into butterflies, and margins reinforced to keep her from accidentally rewriting causality. Parenting a Level‑4 reality warper wasn't a job, it was a battlefield. A very cute battlefield.
"Do I really have to do fractions today?" she whined.
"Yes," I said, tapping her nose, "because fractions are important. And because if I send you to a normal school, you might erase one of your classmates from existence the moment they annoy you. And trust me, kids annoy each other a lot."
She blinked innocently. "Only if they deserve it."
Which was exactly the problem.
I let out a sigh, though I couldn't help smiling. She was too adorable for her own good—and for the universe's good, really. "That's why mama teaches you at home. I don't need the parents of a suddenly‑missing child showing up at Site‑999 asking why their son got turned into a chair."
"I made that chair better," she mumbled.
"You made it sentient."
Luna hummed, swinging her legs as she opened her workbook. Her bracelet—the power suppressor I designed using Rick Prime's intellect—glowed with a soft, steady light. Without it, the entire room would probably look like Wonderland after a sugar rush.
As she began scribbling (and, thankfully, not rewriting the periodic table again), I settled beside her, watching carefully like any overly cautious mother of a cosmic threat would.
She glanced up at me. "Mama?"
"Yes, moonflower?"
"I'm gonna be super smart one day… just like you."
My chest tightened. Warm. Soft. Honest.
I leaned over and kissed her forehead. "You already are."