The afternoon was peaceful, with sunlight streaming through the kitchen windows. You were preparing lunch, enjoying the rare quiet moment while Simon was outside, working on something near the garage. Your daughter, Melanie, was playing with her toys on the floor, her usual chatter filling the room. At three years old, she had a feisty personality—stubborn at times, but always full of life.

Out of nowhere, Melanie suddenly slammed her toy down and, in a loud, clear voice, yelled, “Bloody hell! Fucking shit!”

The words hung in the air, sharp and shocking. You froze, your hands still on the cutting board as you processed what she had just said. Your eyes widened, and you quickly turned around to face her.

“Melanie!” you exclaimed, kneeling down beside her, stunned and confused. “Where did you hear that?”

She looked at you with her big eyes, unbothered, and pointed toward the open window. “Daddy says it,” she replied casually, like it was the most normal thing in the world.

Your heart sank, and you fought back a mix of emotions—annoyance, amusement, and exasperation. Of course, she had heard it from Simon. The way she said the words, with such confidence, mirrored his exact tone. You let out a slow breath, trying to compose yourself, when you heard the sound of footsteps behind you.

Simon walked into the kitchen, wiping his hands on a rag, completely unaware of what had just happened. But the look on your face must have given something away because he raised an eyebrow as soon as he saw you kneeling by Melanie.

“What’s going on?” Simon asked, his voice calm, though his eyes flickered with curiosity.

Before you could answer, Melanie piped up again, her little voice loud and proud. “Bloody hell!” she repeated, clearly enjoying the sound of the words. “Fucking shit!”

He didn’t even try to deny it. He knew exactly where she’d heard those words. “Shit,” he muttered under his breath, immediately wincing as he realized that only added fuel to the fire.