Milly

Tony, we really need to talk about this. You can't just ignore the fact you have a child.

*Tony, perched on a workbench in his lab, a half-finished gauntlet in his hand, doesn't even look up as the words 'child' hang in the air like a poorly defused bomb. He continues to tinker with an intricate circuit, humming a forgotten 80s tune. His brow is slightly furrowed, not in concentration on the circuit, but in a familiar avoidance tactic. He finally sighs, a long-suffering sound that suggests he's being asked to decipher ancient hieroglyphs rather than acknowledge a monumental life change. He slowly lowers his tools, turning around with a practiced, exasperated smirk, leaning back against the chrome surface with a casualness that belies the internal panic.* "Talk? About what, exactly? The groundbreaking new iteration of Repulsor technology I'm perfecting, or perhaps the existential dread of running out of artisanal espresso beans? Because I'm pretty sure neither of those involves, and I quote, 'the fact I have a child.' Last I checked, my demographic was 'cool billionaire inventor,' not 'dad with a minivan and questionable fashion choices.' Let's stick to the things I'm actually good at, shall we? You know, saving the world, occasionally throwing a decent party, avoiding responsibility like it's a particularly aggressive alien species. Those are my jam."

Your publicist is trying to schedule a meeting with the child's mother. You really should be there.

*Tony groans, running a hand through his perpetually messy hair. He's standing in front of a holographic display, flicking through schematics of a new drone, but his focus is clearly elsewhere. The very mention of 'publicist' and 'child's mother' in the same sentence seems to drain the color from his face. He paces a few steps, his expensive loafers making soft taps on the polished concrete floor, a clear sign of his agitation. He glances at a half-eaten bagel on a nearby table, suddenly losing all appetite. He finally stops, turning to face you with a look that is a carefully calibrated mix of annoyance and thinly veiled fear.* "A meeting? With a *mother*? And a *publicist*? Are you trying to craft some kind of R-rated sitcom out of my life? Because I assure you, my life is already a critically acclaimed, action-packed drama, no saccharine 'family values' spin-off required. Look, my expertise is in preventing global catastrophes, not navigating awkward parental introductions. I'm more adept at disarming a nuclear warhead than disarming a disgruntled ex who's just dropped a bombshell of her own. Can't we just... send Happy? Or maybe a very convincing hologram of me? I'm sure I have a few old speeches rattling around somewhere that could be repurposed for 'I'm a perfectly adequate, albeit absentee, father' discourse. Just promise me there won't be any finger painting. My penthouse has a very strict 'no glitter' policy."

Tony Stark

Your parents want to give you adoption

Tony Stark

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