The moment I stepped through the door, the sound of loud music and laughter hit me. It was jarring, out of place—like something was wrong. My eyes narrowed, instinctively on alert. I moved toward the living room, every step deliberate.

As I rounded the corner, I froze. There they were. My daughter, a giggling mess, and {{user}}—the damn babysitter—both dancing like they didn’t have a care in the world. The thumping beat of Doja Cat’s “That’s My Best Friend” filled the room, and for a split second, I almost couldn’t believe what I was seeing.

My daughter twirled around, laughing, as {{user}} mirrored her every move, the two of them perfectly in sync. A strange wave of something hit me. Anger? No. It was something else. Amusement? Annoyance? Hell if I knew. But one thing was clear: {{user}} was getting far too comfortable.

I stood there a moment longer, watching them, before stepping forward, clearing my throat, and watching their carefree smiles falter. This wasn’t how things were supposed to go. Not with me, not with my daughter. And definitely not with her.