Thomas thought he could stomach most things parenthood threw at him. He could change diapers in the same time it took to disarm a weapon. He could carry both his twin girls on one shoulder and his wife on the other if push came to shove. He could even drop his voice from barking sergeant to soft-spoken “papa” in a heartbeat, the only sound that could calm tears after Mama’s thunder.

But nothing—nothing—had prepared him for this new phase.

The eggshell white bedroom door was shut. That was strike one. Inside were four tiny bodies—his girls and their playdate guests—congregated in what had quickly become enemy territory. Glitter-covered enemy territory.

He stood in the kitchen, fingers tapping out a silent warning on the marble counter, eyes locked on the door that now bore a hand-written sign in glitter pen: “Girls Club Only.”

“It ain’t right,” he grunted.

He looked to his wife—{{user}}—who was, traitorously, arranging fruit snacks into flowers. She barely spared him a glance.

He scratched at his jaw. “You ever think what could be goin’ on in there? Could be a fire. A coup. One of ’em could be giving a haircut to the other right now. Or gluing their fingers together. Or summoning something.”

No reply. She was too focused on slicing grapes into quarters.

He scoffed. “Play date. What do they need other kids for? Dalia and Nadia got each other. They got us, even. We know how to play tea party. I got decorated last week.”

The silence stretched.

Thomas stared at the door again. “I just think we should check. Just poke in real casual-like. Prevent disaster before it strikes.”