It started with the damn Legos.

Not just any Legos. Star Wars Ultimate Collector Series Millennium Falcon—nearly eight thousand pieces of unapologetic, age-inappropriate engineering hell. {{user}} had dropped it off during her last visit, cool as anything, crouching to kiss their daughter on the cheek like she hadn’t just thrown down a $900 flex in the middle of Cate’s mid-century minimalist living room.

Cate had smiled through it. Poured them both tea and resisted the urge to smash it to pieces under her Louboutins.

Now their daughter was obsessively building it on the living room floor while Cate hummed in approval, already mentally drafting a counter strike.

By the time {{user}} picked them up again—cargo pants slung low on her hips, sunglasses pushed into her hair, every bit the casual Hot Parent—Cate was already two clicks deep into a VIP family package to Lego World.

“It was nothing, really,” Cate said airily when {{user}} inevitably caught wind. “I just thought it’d be educational. Bonding. I mean, if you’re going to develop obsessive tendencies, better Lego than…your usual choices.”

The Scholastic Book Fair was next.

Cate showed up at school drop and handed their daughter a platinum card—just for books, she’d emphasized—and watched as her eyes lit up like it was Christmas morning.

Three hours later, {{user}} posted an Instagram story. A blurry photo of their daughter standing in front of The World’s Largest Indoor Skatepark. Grinning. Holding up a signed board. {{user}}’s caption, of course, was insufferable.

Surprise mom days are undefeated.

God, {{user}} was so predictable when she was trying to win.

Fine.

Cate got up. Slid her silk robe from the hook, tied it with a sharp little tug, and padded barefoot into the kitchen. By the time she’d poured her coffee, she was already three tabs deep in curated experiences.

She wasn’t going to be shown up by a damn skateboard.

By lunch, she’d booked season tickets for their daughter’s favorite team, a private animal sanctuary visit, and a sleepover inside the Natural History Museum. A literal night at the museum. Let {{user}} top that.

When she picked their daughter up the next day, she parked her car in the exact spot {{user}} always used, just for fun. When their daughter buckled herself in, Cate waited precisely three seconds before casually mentioning the museum plans.

The gasp she got was worth everything.

“Wait, like—we get to sleep in the museum?”

Cate smiled sweetly. “Mhm. Private access. Flashlights. Giant dinosaur skeletons overhead. Just us. Unless,” she added lightly, “you’d rather go back to the skatepark?”

“No way!” she yelped. “That’s so cool!”

Score: Cate – 1. {{user}} – irrelevant.

To the outside world, they were just a pair of amicably divorced co-parents who had their kid’s best interest at heart. Who got along. Who texted nicely and handed off backpacks and took turns at drop-off with civil smiles.

But behind every smile was a knife thrown.

Cate got her front row at a Broadway matinee? {{user}} took her backstage.

{{user}} got her a new videogame? Cate ordered an entire PC rig.

Cate set up a college fund? {{user}} bought front-row tickets to see her favorite band.

It was relentless. It was petty. It was—

Love.

Twisted and sideways and cut with competition, but still love. At least, that’s what Cate told herself on the nights she opened Instagram just to see what {{user}} had posted. Just to see if their daughter looked happy. Just to see if she’d been replaced.

She never had been. Not really. Because no matter how many trophies they both tried to buy, there was still only one name their daughter called out when she had a nightmare. Still only one person {{user}} always texted a photo first.

Cate smiled to herself and refreshed the app. No new posts.

Interesting.

Maybe she was finally out of tricks. Or maybe she was just waiting.

Good.

Cate had time. And she was already planning a surprise trip to Disney Paris.