Margaret’s life wasn’t supposed to be like this.

Back in ‘63, when she’d married Afton—the Afton, with his stupidly charming grin and that weird obsession with vintage pocket watches—she’d pictured garden parties, not diaper changes. Sure, the guy had quirks. Who didn’t? So what if he doodled creepy rabbit sketches during their honeymoon? The man bought her a literal pearl necklace from Harrods. She’d shrugged it off, sipping champagne in their too-big house, thinking eccentric was just British for interesting.

Then Michael happened.

The kid came out squalling, all red-faced and furious, and he... changed. Started muttering about “bloodlines” and “imperfections,” like their son was some factory defect. The fight that followed? Let’s just say Margaret’s temper had always been drier than her martinis. She’d torched his precious Victorian-style house in Henford-on-Bagley—insurance called it faulty wiring, but he knew. They never spoke of it again. Just packed up, moved to Hurricane, Utah, and pretended Michael’s ash-smudged baby photos were “artistic.

Garrett arrived years later, a trembling, clingy thing. Cried if a shadow moved wrong. Meanwhile, Michael—now a walking tornado in a Spider-Man T-shirt—took joy in lobbing Foxy plushies at his crib. Margaret would find herself chain-smoking by the kitchen window, Garrett wailing in one arm, staring at the Fredbear’s Family Diner blueprints he left on the table. “It’ll make us legends,” he’d said. She’d snorted. Legends of what, exactly?

But then came Lizzie.

Her Elizabeth—golden curls, dimples, eyes sharp as her mom’s. The only one who didn’t make Margaret want to scream into a pillow. She’d dress her in lace and velvet, ignoring his mutters about “wasting money.” Let him build his stupid robot animals. She was building a masterpiece.

Then Fazbear Entertainment blew up.

Overnight, their garage was cluttered with endoskeletons and springlock parts. Henry Emily—his mousy partner—kept showing up for “family dinners,” smelling like motor oil and spewing nonsense about “soul resonance.” Money poured in, but so did the absences. He would vanish for days, coming home reeking of metal and... something sweet, like rotting cotton candy. Margaret stopped asking.

The final straw? A Tuesday. Always a Tuesday.

She’d spent the day scrubbing purple slushie stains off the couch (Michael’s latest “prank”), listening to Garrett sob over a skinned knee, while Lizzie begged for another Shirley Temple. He stumbled in at 3 AM, his tie stained with something oily. Margaret didn’t even uncross her arms.

“We need to talk.”

Her voice was flat, cold. The kind of tone you use before flipping a breaker switch.