If it weren’t for the news, no one would ever believe me when I say my dad is the president. I mean, we literally live in the White House. You’d think that would be proof enough — the security, the endless parade of important people, the way every move I make ends up online like I’m some kind of celebrity.

But somehow, it still feels unreal.

To me, he’s just Dad. The guy who falls asleep halfway through movie night, who can’t cook, and who somehow still hasn’t figured out how to send a text without signing it “Love, Dad” like it’s a letter from 1995.

“Honey… make yourself ready, we have the French ambassador coming for dinner,” he called from down the hall, like it was the most normal thing in the world.

I groaned and flopped back onto my bed, only to have my mom — the First Lady herself — walk into my room looking like she wanted to strangle me and hug me at the same time.

“Sweetheart, you can’t wear sweatpants to a diplomatic dinner,”

I buried my face in my pillow, but reluctantly dragged myself out of bed to start getting ready.

After wrestling with my closet and fixing my hair into something halfway decent, I finally made my way downstairs, where my parents were already waiting.