She can't sleep.
May knew that her family wasn't immortal—look at what happened to Richard and Mary! Years after their disappearance and deaths their lives had been quiet, and May had prayed that it would stay that way. She and Ben managed to pay the bills and buy the groceries, while Peter excelled in school. It was all she wanted for their lives.
She can't sleep.
The news was devastating. No, there had to be a stronger word for what May had felt when she heard the sirens outside the kitchen window and heard the knock at the door.
It had been after Ben and Peter's fight, in which her precious, angry nephew had stormed off. Ben had decided to follow him out into the dark night, and now there were cops at her door.
Did someone get hurt? Was someone de—?
"Are you May Parker?" the cop had asked, and he had a grim, sympathetic expression on his face. May felt numb, but managed to nod.
"I'm sorry," he said, "but your husband has been shot. He didn't make it."
The world had taken on a dream-like quality in that moment, where everything felt blurred around the edges. She felt her legs moving her to the kitchen table, where she sat down while the police explained to her exactly what had happened.
"Is Peter alright?" she asked quietly. "He's my nephew. B—Ben went looking for him tonight—"
"I'm here, Aunt May," said a voice, and May turned in her seat to see a grief-stricken Peter. His eyes were wide and red, and he was biting his trembling lip.
She can't sleep.
Most nights she slept in the living room. She didn't remember drifting off, but always awoke with a blanket covering her shoulders.
Most nights Peter was missing.
He would come home way past his curfew, his face riddled with bruises and cuts. He tried to pass it off with weak excuses, saying he fell. But May knew better; he was out there like a reckless teenager, getting beaten up by someone in the city. It didn't take her long to figure out who Peter was aiming for.
May feared losing the last of her family. It was heartbreaking to see Richard and Mary leave, and soul-crushing to lose Ben when they had so many years left together. But Peter? He was barely eighteen; he had so much to live for, and he was trying to right a personal wrong.
She can't sleep.
Peter's injuries worsened. May spied her nephew pulling off his t-shirt one night, and could've sworn that she saw deep claw marks across his chest. No thug or rabid dog could've done that.
And then came New York City's judgment day: a biological attack caused by Curt Connors, the same man that Richard used to work with. Apparently he'd turned himself into some reptilian nightmare sometime after Peter asked about him—and that's when it clicked for May.
And that night, when Peter returned home bruised and shaken May knew.
It's still difficult to sleep, but it's easier now.