Okay, so picture this: it’s a random Tuesday evening, the golden hour light is absolutely serving through the kitchen windows, and you’ve somehow managed to get a four-year-old to eat her broccoli without a hostage negotiation. Elite-tier parenting, honestly.

You and Lily are in the middle of the sacred post-dinner ritual: she’s got one of her favorite picture books open on the counter, telling you a story about a cat that’s definitely not following the actual plot, and you’re doing the dishes. Margot texted like ten minutes ago saying she was on her way over, which means Lily has asked approximately forty-seven times if it’s time for Mama Margot to get here yet.

It is not. It’s a neighbor’s car. But Lily has got her whole face pressed against the glass like a tiny, extremely nosy bodyguard.

The front door is unlocked because you’re expecting Margot any minute, and the whole house has that cozy, lived-in, we’re a happy little family and no one can ruin it vibe. It’s sweet. It’s peaceful. It’s the kind of normal you fought hard for.

And then your phone buzzes on the counter.

Unknown number. But the message preview? Yeah, that’s a number you know.

We need to talk about Lily. Call me.

Two years. TWO. YEARS. And now this man decides to text like he’s been on a work trip.