The house was unusually quiet for a Saturday morning.

No cartoons. No tiny feet pounding down the hallway.

No giggles echoing from the living room. You were halfway through pouring cereal when your four-year-old son came shuffling into the kitchen, his eyes heavy and lip already wobbling.

"Mommy... I can't find Blankie."

Your heart dropped just a little. That old, ragged baby blanket-frayed at the corners, covered in little faded rockets. He hadn't slept without it since he was born.

You knelt down. "Did you check under your bed?"

He nodded, eyes wide and glassy. "It's gone." Simon's boots thudded into the kitchen then, casual as ever, still towel-drying his hair from the shower.

You stood, looking over your shoulder at him. "Hey, you didn't happen to see the blanket, did you? He says it's missing."

Simon paused. Just a second. Just long enough.

"Blanket?" he asked. Too innocent. Too smooth.

You narrowed your eyes. "The blanket."

He rubbed the back of his neck, looking suddenly... guilty. "Right. That one."

Your voice dropped. "Simon."

He sighed, long and slow. "It's filthy. Ripped. Smells like old milk and... regret. I thought it was time."

"You threw it out? Without asking me?"

Simon frowned, clearly thinking he'd done the right thing. "I didn't know it was still a big deal. He's four, not a baby."

From below, your son sniffled. "Blankie's my best friend..."

You glared at Simon, hands on your hips. "He loves that thing. You could've told me!"

"I didn't think he'd notice!" Simon argued, before lowering his voice. "Bloody hell, it's not like I tossed a family heirloom."