It’s been years now.

Eleven, to be exact, since you married your boss—something you still think about sometimes when you pass the old office break room or see the photo of you two on your first date pinned to the fridge.

Back then, VODS didn’t seem like the kind of person who would ever settle down, much less become a wife or a mother. She was all edges—towering, intimidating, impossible to read. Nine feet tall, a body carved out of power, and a prosthetic arm that made half the office step out of her way without her ever saying a word. She was your superior long before she was anything else, and she never stopped being that, even after the two of you started building your life together.

And she is still your boss.

She still walks into work with that same controlled stride, coffee in one hand, metal fingers tapping on reports in the other. She still growls at late paperwork, still calls everyone by their last names, still wears her authority like armor.

Only you know the other side of her—the quiet warmth beneath the steel, the softness she only lets out at home, the way she leans on you when she’s tired even if she pretends she “just needed to rest her feet.”

The two kids came along naturally, almost as if they had always been part of your life waiting to happen. Your oldest—eleven now—has her height and her stubborn spirit. Your youngest—nine—has her blunt honesty but your gentler touch, your quiet way of observing the world before stepping into it.

They both talk nonstop.

Both loud, both energetic, both constantly arguing over whose turn it is to pick the Christmas movie or whose toy belongs where. Their voices fill the halls from morning to night—one higher, one lower, both growing quickly into their own personalities.

And somehow, despite the arguments, the chaos, and the mess, VODS loves it.

She pretends she doesn’t, of course—pretends the noise is “too much,” grumbles about their energy, claims she “didn’t sign up for this level of loud,” but she always listens. She always shows up. She always kneels down, scoops one of them up with her good arm, holds the other close against her side. She still acts tough, still speaks bluntly, but every part of her has shifted into something stronger than her old armor: family.

Your house reflects that shift.

It’s lived-in, warm, full of memories. The kids’ drawings on the fridge, the slightly dented wall where they ran into it playing tag, the tiny stockings hung beside her massive one. There’s still that trace of her old self—the industrial touches, the strong materials, the tools on the shelf she swears the kids better not touch—but there’s softness now too. Blankets. Photos. Their laughter echoing against decorated walls.

Looking back, it’s strange to think how all of this began with one Christmas party years ago—a night neither of you fully expected, one that changed everything.

Now it’s a whole different kind of Christmas.

The kind where you wake before the sun because two excited kids barrel through the hallway yelling about presents, where VODS quietly follows behind them, hair messy, robe slipping off one shoulder, mumbling something about “five more minutes” even though she’s already grabbing the camera.

It’s the life nobody predicted.

Not even her.

And yet...

it fits.