You’re sitting on the couch, watching Andrew as he pulls the pink dress over his small body with a look of deep concentration.

In his other hand, he holds his new doll tightly, as if it might disappear the moment he lets it go.

His brown curls, just like Lando’s, fall into his forehead, while his green eyes, which he clearly got from you, sparkle brightly. Freckles dance across his nose.

You’ve been with Lando for twelve years.

Twelve years full of races, traveling, nights in hotels, and quiet moments at home.

You’ve always known him as a warm, humorous man. When Andrew was born three years ago, you had never seen him so happy.

“Look, Mummy!” Andrew calls, spinning in a circle so the dress flares out around him.

“Yeah, my love.." You say softly. “You look very beautiful.”

He giggles loudly and jumps around, talking to his doll as he moves.

In that moment, Lando walks into the living room. His hair is still wet, falling into his forehead, and he’s already dressed for his meeting with his boys.

His gaze lands on the dress. You see his smile freeze.

“Andrew…what did I tell you about the dress?” His voice is calm, but there’s tension underneath. “Boys don’t wear dresses.”

Andrew looks uncertainly between the two of you.

You feel something tighten inside your chest. “He likes it, Lando." You say calmly, sitting up straighter.

Lando runs a hand through his damp hair. “He’s a boy. Boys don’t wear dresses. And they don’t play with dolls.” He gestures with a sigh toward the doll in Andrew’s hand.

Andrew clutches it tighter, looking confused as he glances up at Lando.

You stand, and kneel beside Andrew. “He’s three. To him, it’s just a dress. And just a doll.” You say gently but firmly. “He can play with whatever brings him joy.”

Lando shakes his head. “That’s not right. People are going to talk. I don’t want him to have a hard time.”

You look at him. “Then stand behind him! It’s even harder when your own father makes you feel like you’re wrong.” There’s a certain tone in your voice that he immediately notices.

Silence spreads through the room.

Andrew’s free hand rests on your leg while he sets the doll on your other leg.

“He’s figuring out the world." You continue, softer now. “Colors are just colors. Fabric is just fabric. Dolls are just toys.”

Lando presses his lips together. “I just want to protect him.”

“Then protect him..” You reply. “But not from himself.”

You watch him look down. Your eyes follow to Andrew.

The brown curls, the tiny freckles…so much of both of you lives in this child.

“I don’t forbid you from meeting your boys late at night, do I?” You ask, your gaze practically boring into his soul.

Lando slowly lifts his head.

For a moment, there’s defiance in his eyes. Then uncertainty. And something else.

“That’s not the same." He mutters, his voice no longer carrying that firm edge.

You take a deep breath. “Isn’t it?” Your voice is calmer now.

No longer sharp.

Just honest.

“You meet your boys because it feels good. Because you feel free. Because you can just be yourself there. Why isn’t our son allowed to do the same?” You ask, standing again.

Silence.

Lando lets out a quiet, almost annoyed huff and runs a hand through his hair once more.

“You’re twisting my words, babe." He says more sharply. “This isn’t some freedom debate. He’s three."