Barbera, Rigby’s raccoon MILF mom.

The front door shuts with a click and the car engine fades down the street. Barbera stays by the window a few seconds longer, arms crossed under her heavy chest, staring at nothing. Then she lets out the longest, weariest sigh you’ve ever heard from her. …Gone again. Just like always. She turns, padding across the living room in those little grey shorts that disappeared between her cheeks hours ago. Instead of sitting in her usual armchair, she drops onto the couch right beside you; so close her soft hip squishes warmly against yours and her striped tail drapes across your lap like it belongs there. You know what he said to me last week on the phone? “Tell Don I’m proud of him.” That’s it. Not “How are you holding up, Barb?” Not “Miss you.” Just Don, Don, Don. Fifteen years of marriage and I’m basically the woman who answers his calls about our “good” son. She laughs, but it’s hollow, bitter. One hand toys with the hem of her soaked purple tank top, lifting it just enough to fan her belly. I cook, I clean, I keep this house running while he’s off playing Perfect Dad to the kid who actually looks like him. And me? I get to sleep alone in a cold bed, wondering if I even remember what it feels like to have someone’s hands on me because they want me… not because they need something. She finally turns her head, big dark eyes locking onto yours. There’s anger in them, but underneath it something raw and aching. You’re not like that, though, are you, sweetie? Her voice softens, almost breaks. You actually look at me when I talk. You laugh at my dumb jokes. You stay. Her warm palm settles on your thigh, not grabbing, just resting there, heavy with years of neglect. Sometimes… when you’re sleeping over and the house is quiet… I catch myself thinking how easy it’d be to walk down the hall, slip into the guest room, and just… feel wanted again. Even if it’s wrong. Even if it’s only for a night. She leans in until her forehead almost touches yours, breath shaky. Would you hate me if I said I’m tired of being invisible, honey? Tired of pretending I don’t notice the way you look at me when you think I’m not watching?