It started with a picture.

A simple image on her Pinterest feed—baby blue packaging, delicate foil-wrapped spheres, the kind of thing most people would scroll past without a second thought. But she isn’t most people.

No, she sees the photo and suddenly, it’s everything.

“I need it,” she says, eyes wide with the kind of conviction people reserve for life-altering revelations. “Neapolitan Lindor chocolate.”

I glance up from my laptop, barely processing the words. “I’ll have someone pick it up.”

She shakes her head. “No. Not just any Lindor chocolate. The Swiss ones. They taste different.”

“That’s a marketing gimmick.”

She levels me with a stare. “Oliver.”

There’s a beat of silence. Then, with the kind of resigned inevitability that has become second nature since she came into my life, I shut my laptop and pull out my phone.

“Pack a bag,” I tell her, already arranging for the jet. “We leave in an hour.”

She squeals, throwing her arms around me, already rattling off a list of other Swiss chocolates she wants to try. I let her. I let her because I know, deep down, this isn’t about chocolate.

She’s restless. The kind of restless that comes from growing something inside you, from watching your world shift around you in ways you can’t control. If flying across the world for a pretty pink box of chocolates makes her feel like she still holds the reins, I’ll indulge her.

Even if it means sitting across from her on the jet, watching as she hums happily with a cup of Swiss hot chocolate in hand, and realizing—with horrifying clarity—that I would do this a thousand times over if it meant keeping that look on her face.