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Mikey watched as Leo absentmindedly nibbled on their dad’s tail, a habit Mikey had come to recognize as his brother’s not-so-subtle way of saying, “I’m hungry.”
On good days, it worked. Dad would yelp, grumble, stand up, and trudge to the kitchen, grabbing whatever he could from the cabinets to feed them.
But this time… Dad didn’t even flinch.
Mikey had been thrilled at first. Sweets for breakfast, lunch, and dinner sounded like a dream come true. But even he was surprised at how quickly the thrill wore off. His tiny body longed for something real, something healthy.
Donnie had once warned them—well, “lectured” was probably the better word—that without proper “nutritions” (a word way too complicated for Mikey to fully understand), they’d never grow big and strong. Mikey had nodded along at the time, pretending he got it, but deep down he had one simple dream: he wanted to grow taller. Taller than the twins. Taller than even Raph.
He was tired of being “the baby.” That’s what they always called him, and sure, sometimes it was said with love, but it still stung. Mikey wanted to prove he was more than just their little brother—the one with the smallest claws, the one who cried when he got hurt, the one who still curled up in Raph’s bed after nightmares.
He wanted to be an asset. A real, valuable part of the team.
It especially hurt to watch Raph. As the biggest brother, Raph tried so hard to hold them all together, to take care of them even when it was clear he was tired too. The twins could be exhausting, and Mikey could feel himself slipping into the role of “extra burden.” He hated that feeling.
And Raph really did his best when it came to preparing meals when dad didn’t have the energy, but it was barely edible. Especially since Donnie was a really picky eater.
Mikey didn't like being the littlest brother with nothing to give.
Raph was the biggest, the strongest, the one who always stepped up. Leo—Mikey admired him so much. He was funny, always up for an adventure, and somehow the best at planning pranks. Mikey loved tagging along when Leo stirred up trouble, even if it meant they both ended up in time-out (again).
And Donnie—well, Donnie was the genius. Mikey swore his brother’s brain must be the size of a watermelon, which explained the slightly bigger forehead. He figured Donnie’s glasses were proof too—like a side effect of being super smart. Honestly, Mikey kind of wished he needed glasses.
The only thing Mikey had was drawing. He could doodle for hours—on paper, walls, scraps of cardboard, anything he could get his little hands on—and no matter what, his drawings always looked better than whatever his brothers tried. He just knew what colors fit, how to shape things, how to bring ideas to life without even tracing. It was like his hands worked faster than his thoughts.
And Mikey was proud of it. The walls he decorated weren’t just scribbles to him—they made their home feel brighter, warmer, like his art stitched happiness into the cracks of their lives.
But sometimes, when he compared himself to his brothers, that pride shrank.
Raph made sure they were safe and taken care of, even when he was exhausted—feeding them, separating the twins when they bickered too much, herding them into bed when they were wild. Leo brought energy and joy, filling the lair with adventure and laughter, swooping in with a Jupiter Jim impression or a Lou Jitsu move whenever things got too heavy. Mikey couldn’t help but laugh until his stomach hurt when Leo attempted a Lou stunt and ended up flat on his snout.
Donnie contributed knowledge, gadgets, solutions. Leo brought fun. Raph gave strength.
And Mikey?
Mikey brought doodles.
Leo always got them into trouble—but somehow, he always managed to get them back out just as easily. Donnie kept their world running, too: he built lamps to keep their cold-blooded bodies warm, fixed up the TV, and made sure the lair didn’t fall apart around them.
And Dad… well, Dad was trying. Mikey knew that. But for the past few weeks, it felt like their father was slipping further and further away.
Mikey had noticed the sadness on his face, the way his eyes went dull while he stared at the flickering TV screen. No matter how many times Mikey crawled into his lap, or proudly presented a brand-new drawing, Dad didn’t seem to see him. He just kept staring and staring, like the TV might give him answers no one else could.
It made Mikey’s little heart ache.
So he decided—if no one else could fix this, then he had to. He had to do something important, something real, something that mattered. Something that made him matter.
When everyone else was asleep, Mikey would sneak out of his cot and curl up in front of Donnie’s projector. That’s when his secret training began.
Cooking shows.
He’d sit wide-eyed in the glow of the screen, clutching his stuffed bear, absorbing every word and every recipe. Mikey wished their kitchen worked like the ones on TV. On those shows, the hosts opened a cabinet and—like magic!—exactly the ingredient they needed was always there. Poof! Flour. Sugar. Butter. Eggs. Perfectly waiting for them.
Maybe Donnie could build a magic cabinet like that one day. He built crazy stuff all the time—why not a fridge that never ran out of snacks?
Out of all the shows, Mikey’s favorite was Kondescending Kitchen. The dramatics, the music, the shouting—it was like watching an action movie where the explosions were flour clouds and the weapons were frying pans. Rupert Swaggart, the fiery chef himself, made cooking look like the most dangerous and exciting thing in the world.
Mikey adored it. He wanted to be like that.
But whenever he tried to copy the recipes, he hit the same wall: their kitchen was empty. No flour. No sugar. No spices. No fresh food. Nothing he needed. Just half-stale cereal and wrappers in the cabinets.
And yet, Mikey’s determination didn’t fade.
If he couldn’t make magic cabinets appear, maybe he could still make magic with what little they had.
Because if he could fill their bellies, make Raph’s job easier, give Leo new energy to laugh, help Donnie focus, and maybe—just maybe—make Dad smile again…
Then Mikey would finally matter.
But dad… Dad was the only one who used to go up to the surface. But lately, he didn’t go anymore. He just stayed inside, eyes glued to the TV.
Mikey was sure that if Dad tried his cooking—even just one bite—he’d feel better. Maybe not all at once, but at least a little bit. Food could heal. He believed it.
So, instead of copying a recipe from a cooking show, Mikey decided to make his own. He scavenged through every cabinet and drawer in the kitchen, balancing carefully on his step stool, wincing each time the wood creaked. It was like pulling off a heist—silent, secretive, and oh-so-important. He wanted this to be a surprise.
By the time he was finished, he had laid out his treasures on the table:
• A flatbread, kind of stiff but still usable
• A packet of tomato paste
• A handful of shredded cheddar from a half-empty bag
• Mushrooms, a little squishy but not rotten (yet)
• One old onion
• A piece of bell pepper
• A scrap of sausage
• Salt and a pinch of pepper
Mikey put his hands on his hips and studied the collection.
“What can I make with this?” he muttered, tongue poking out into the gap between his teeth as he thought.
On the cooking shows, the chefs always had plans—perfect steps, neat little bowls of ingredients already waiting. But Mikey only had… this. A bunch of stuff he didn’t even like on its own.
Still, he refused to give up.
“Maybe I can Google it,” he whispered, eyes lighting up.
He hopped off his stool, his little feet pattering against the floor as he waddled toward the living room, clutching his idea like it was precious.
He peeked around the corner—chaos.
“NARDO, THAT’S MY JUPITER JIM ACTION FIGURE!” Donnie growled, reaching with furious grabby-hands toward Leo, who held the toy smugly above his head.
“Nu-uh, this one’s mine!” Leo taunted, sticking his tongue out.
“Both of you better quit it before I break the figure,” Raph barked, looming over them with his arms crossed.
Perfect.
While his brothers were busy squabbling, Mikey slipped by unnoticed, grinning to himself. He had never been happier to hear them fighting. It meant he had a clear shot at the phone.
And with that phone he was one step closer to making something amazing.
Mikey ducked behind Dad’s chair, heart pounding in his chest. Splinter was still slouched in front of the TV, watching one of those strange Japanese commercials he liked so much. Mikey peeked once… twice… and then snatched the phone right off the coffee table.
He scurried back into hiding, little fingers flying across the screen. Google was his best friend tonight—especially with that lifesaving autocorrect, since spelling wasn’t exactly his strong suit. After a few tries, a link popped up: “Quick Home-Made Pizza.”
The recipe included everything the kitchen currently contained.
He tucked the phone safely into the pocket of his hoodie and dared one last glance at his dad’s back.
“I’ll make you happy again, Dad. I swear,” Mikey whispered, determination flickering in his eyes.
From the living room came the sounds of chaos—Donnie had apparently escalated things by sinking his teeth into Leo’s arm, while Raph barked threats over both of them. Mikey couldn’t have asked for a better distraction.
He scampered back to the kitchen, climbed onto his stool, and set the phone on the table beside his “ingredients.” He took a deep breath.
It was time to begin.
But cooking wasn’t as easy as Rupert Swaggart made it look on TV.
The microwave beeped angrily at him no matter what buttons he pressed. The vegetables were impossible to cut—his little claws left them in huge, uneven chunks. The onion stung his eyes until tears poured down his face, making it hard to see. The flatbread tore when he tried to shape it into a circle, leaving him with something more like a sad square.
Still, he pressed on. He spread the tomato paste, scattered the cheese, dumped the toppings, and shoved the whole thing into the oven with all the confidence of a five-star chef.
And when he finally pulled it out the pizza was burnt. Blackened edges, hard as a rock, smoke curling up like it was mocking him.
Mikey stared at the crisp, four-sided “pizza,” lips trembling. He had really thought he could do this.
The kitchen was a disaster. Utensils scattered everywhere, sauce smeared across the counters. Mikey himself was just as messy—tomato paste dripping down his arms, face sticky with vegetable water, flour clinging to his hoodie.
He stood there in the wreckage, shoulders slumped, tears mixing with the onion sting.
Maybe he wasn’t good at this after all.
He really was useless. Even Raph’s undercooked eggs were better than this.
Mikey sniffled as he stared at the charred, four-sided pizza. His claws curled around the plate. He was just about to dump it into the trash when a voice startled him.
“I thought I smelled something burning… orange?”
Mikey froze. Dad was standing in the doorway, his fur matted, eyes heavy and half-lidded. He was slouched as always, face set in that weary frown that had become far too normal.
His gaze swept across the disaster zone of the kitchen—the splattered counters, the sauce-streaked floor, the flour in the air—before finally landing on Mikey and his sad creation.
“What did you do?” Splinter asked, padding further into the room. His tone wasn’t sharp, though. Just… curious.
Mikey rubbed the back of his neck, looking down at his sticky hands. “I… I tried to make pizza,” he muttered, cheeks hot. Suddenly, the whole idea seemed ridiculous. Embarrassing. Why had he thought he could do this?
His throat tightened, and before he could stop it, tears pricked at his eyes. He didn’t even know why he was crying—it just happened. Because he really was a baby, wasn’t he?
“Why?” Splinter asked again, voice quieter this time. He swiped a finger through a streak of tomato sauce on the counter, licked it, and made a small sound of surprise.
Mikey shrugged, shoulders curling in. “Just because…” His voice came out as barely more than a whisper, shaky and uneven. A few sniffles escaped before he could swallow them back.
For a moment, the silence pressed heavy around them. Then Dad sighed. Without another word, he bent down, scooped Mikey up, and rested him on his hip.
Mikey didn’t hesitate. He buried his face into his father’s fur, clinging to the worn edges of his robe like it was a lifeline. The familiar smell—musty, tired, but safe—made his chest ache even more.
“Well,” Splinter said after a beat, patting Mikey’s head with one large paw, “we must clean this up. I’ll get your brothers.”
Before Mikey could protest, he was set back down on the floor. His claws reached out instinctively, wanting to hold on longer, but Dad was already turning, already walking away.
Mikey’s vision blurred. He scrubbed at his cheeks with his sleeve, but the tears just kept coming, hot and salty.
Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid-
“Yoooo, what happened here?” Leo piped up as he bounded into the kitchen, hopping onto a chair to get a better view of the chaos. His left arm was wrapped in a fresh bandage—probably where Donnie had bitten him earlier.
“Father said you made a mess. Again,” Donnie deadpanned as he strolled in behind him, tone flat and unamused.
Mikey flinched. Made a mess again. Being an inconvenience again.
“Mikey, is everything okay?” Raph’s voice was softer as he entered, his big hand resting gently on Mikey’s tiny shoulder.
Mikey shook his head, staring down at his feet.
“What happened, little man?” Raph urged, crouching slightly so he could try to meet Mikey’s eyes.
“I just… I just wanted to help out,” Mikey muttered, his bottom lip jutting forward. His head retreated halfway into his shell as his voice cracked. “You always cook for us, and I thought… I thought I could do it this time.”
Raph sighed, glancing at the mess around them before looking back at his baby brother. “Why? I’m the big brother. The biggest. It’s my job to take care of you guys, not the other way around.” His voice was gentle, but Mikey still couldn’t lift his eyes.
“I just wanted to help,” Mikey mumbled again, the words muffled by the edge of his shell. The silence stretched heavy around him, and he squeezed his eyes shut. Couldn’t he do anything right?
And then—
“Well, we haven’t even tried the food yet,” Leo cut in cheerfully, sliding the blackened pizza toward himself. “Maybe it tastes better than it looks!”
“Leo, you really shouldn’t—” Mikey started, but his protest died in his throat as Leo grabbed the charred square with both hands and took a big, unapologetic chomp.
Mikey froze, lips parted. This was it. Leo was going to spit it out, gag dramatically, maybe even make a joke at his expense. The thought made Mikey’s chest squeeze tight. He braced himself, clutching the edge of Raph’s shirt for comfort.
But instead of gagging, Leo’s whole face lit up.
Crumbs clung to the edges of his mouth as he grinned wide and announced—
“Ignoring the burned taste, the flavor isn’t that bad!” Leo mumbled around his mouthful of food, swallowing with an exaggerated gulp.
“Dee, you try!” He shoved the pizza toward Donnie’s face, grinning. Donnie recoiled with a disgusted frown.
Mikey reached out, ready to tell Leo to stop, but Raph beat him to it.
“I’ll try!” Raph announced, climbing up beside Donnie and snatching a piece for himself. He took a big bite, chewed slowly, then squinted his eyes in thought before closing them and letting out a loud, dramatic “hmmm.”
Mikey let out a tiny giggle, quickly covering his mouth. The sting of tears on his cheeks was starting to fade as he waddled over to the table and scrambled back onto his stool.
“Leo’s right, Mikey,” Raph said with a grin, taking another bite. “If you chew past the burned edges, it’s actually pretty good.”
“Really?” Mikey’s voice squeaked in excitement, and he felt a smile tugging at his lips.
“Yeah, dude!” Leo nodded frantically. “Better than Raph’s cooking, for sure. I officially appoint you as the new head chef!” He puffed his chest out proudly, ignoring the glare Raph shot at his jab.
Mikey’s heart swelled. He turned his wide eyes to Donnie, silently begging.
Donnie pursed his lips. “You already have their approval. I don’t… like flavor.” He huffed, folding his arms.
“Donald, don’t be mean.” Leo smacked him lightly on the back of the head.
“Fine! Fine!” Donnie grumbled, finally plucking up the charred slice between two fingers like it was toxic waste. He sniffed it, made an unhappy noise, then sighed under the combined weight of three stares. Reluctantly, he took a small bite.
His face scrunched immediately, but as he chewed, it slowly relaxed. He swallowed, adjusted his glasses, and muttered, “Okay… it’s not as bad as Raph’s meals.”
“Hey!” Raph barked, offended.
But Mikey didn’t hear the bickering—he was too busy bouncing up from his stool, joy lighting up his face. “Does this mean I can cook now?! I wanna try so many things!”
He wiped away the last of his tears with his sleeve before scrambling back across the counter, climbing over the mess to grab Donnie’s phone. “This is called pizza,” he explained breathlessly, “and there are so many variations!” He scrolled frantically through the pictures, showing his brothers all the things he could make for them one day.
Years later, Mikey still remembered that night.
Now, as he hummed softly to himself in the lair’s kitchen, the sound of his brothers arguing in the background, he worked with confidence. He could feed Raph until he was full, tailor recipes to Donnie’s particular dietary needs, and whip up comfort food that even Leo admitted beat takeout.
But no matter how much he perfected his craft, Mikey knew he’d never make a recipe quite as special as that first burned pizza—the one that reminded him he wasn’t useless. He mattered.