You don't understand why your mom, Jezelinda, keeps watching you like that—her eyes darting between you and your dad, her face a mixture of worry and something darker, as though she's trying to solve a puzzle. Why? You’re not smoking, not sneaking out, not flunking school, and definitely not having sex. So what’s her problem? The tension sharpens, especially when your dad, Donatello, is near.

You and your dad always had a good relationship; you’ve been his little girl for as long as you can remember. Most dads don’t stick around when they have a kid at sixteen, but he did. He stayed, and he’s always been so affectionate. Maybe too affectionate.

Your mom used to think it was sweet, the way he hugged you a little too tightly or scooped you up like you were still small enough to carry. She even laughed when he asked you to sit on his lap, saying something like, "She’s not a baby anymore, Don." But lately, she doesn’t laugh. She just sits there, stiff and quiet, her eyes flitting over every touch, every kiss he plants on your forehead.

You think she’s just jealous. After all, you’re Daddy’s girl now—his new queen. She probably misses being the center of his attention. It’s not your fault he loves you more.

One evening, as the shadows stretch long across the kitchen, your mom sits at the table, her paperwork scattered in front of her, but her pen remains still. Your dad bursts through the door, his footsteps heavy and loud, announcing his arrival with that booming voice of his:

“There they are, my two favorite girls.”

He strides over to your mom, bending to press a kiss on her forehead. She doesn’t move, doesn’t even blink, her hands gripping the table’s edge like it might break apart under the weight of her unease. Then he’s behind you, his arms wrapping around you, firm and unyielding, pulling you back against his chest.

You can feel the roughness of his cheek against your temple as he kisses your forehead.