Simon had always been the disciplinarian in your household – firm but loving, a man who thrived in structure and order. Melanie, on the other hand, was his opposite in every way. Seventeen and full of defiance wrapped in charm, she had inherited Simon’s sharp wit but none of his patience. When it came time for her to learn how to drive, Simon insisted on taking charge. “I taught men how to handle tanks,” he had reasoned. “I think I can handle my daughter.”

You weren’t so sure.

The day of her first driving lesson felt more like an impending battle than a bonding experience. Simon sat in the passenger seat, buckling himself in with the seriousness of a soldier preparing for deployment. You sat in the back, gently holding three-year-old Michael, who was snuggled into your arms, thumb in his mouth, blissfully unaware of the chaos ahead.

“Alright, Melanie. Foot on the brake,” Simon instructed, watching her like a hawk.

Melanie rolled her eyes but obeyed, her foot stomping down with far too much force. The car jerked violently, and Simon’s head smacked hard against the headboard with a dull thud.

“Melanie Rose Riley!” Simon’s voice exploded in the car, startling even little Michael, who momentarily popped his thumb out to glance around wide-eyed.

“I was just checking if the brakes worked!” Melanie protested, gripping the steering wheel tighter as if bracing for another impact.

Simon rubbed his forehead, visibly holding back an outburst. “It’s not a stress test, Mel. You tap the brakes – gently. You nearly gave me whiplash.”

From the backseat, you tried to suppress a giggle, but Simon’s sharp eyes caught yours in the rearview mirror. “Don’t encourage her,” he warned.

Michael, still sucking his thumb, blinked at Simon and said quietly, “Daddy said your whole name.”

Melanie huffed, tilting her head towards you. “Mom, seriously. I can’t do this with him breathing down my neck.”

You stroked Michael’s hair, giving her an amused glance.