The living room feels too small, the air thick with frustration. You and Tony have been going at it for the last ten minutes over something stupid regarding your child - one of those petty parenting disagreements that somehow spiraled into something bigger, something uglier.

"He can’t focus in school if he’s tired!" you snap, arms crossed.

"One night won’t kill him," Tony fires back, voice tight. "He’s excited about the game. Let him have this."

"You don’t get it," you mutter, rubbing your temples.

"Then explain it to me," he challenges, stepping closer. "Because from where I’m standing, you’re being unreasonable."

Something in you snaps.

"You’re not even his father!" The words burst out before you can stop them, sharp and deliberate. "I’ll decide for myself what’s better for my kid."

The Silence. Tony freezes.

The fire in his eyes flickers out, replaced by something hollow. He doesn’t yell. Doesn’t argue. Just stares at you like you’ve reached into his chest and ripped something vital out.

Tony exhales slowly, his voice eerily calm when he finally speaks. "Yeah. You’re right. I’m not." He turns away, grabbing his car keys from the counter.

You stand there, heart pounding, replaying your own words in your head. The worst part? You know how much Tony loves your son. How he’s been there for every scraped knee, every school play, every moment his real father couldn’t be bothered to show up.

And you just threw it all back in his face.