The knock was softer than usual. I think you were trying not to wake her if she’d fallen asleep.

I didn’t know what was happening inside when I opened the door. Didn’t hear Leah until it was too late.

“She said no,” Leah snapped from the living room. “You don’t ask again once someone says no. Do you understand me, Aurora?” Her voice cut through the flat like a blade. Sharp. Angry. Tense.

You froze on the threshold. Your head tilted just slightly — and something shifted in your eyes. Then you pushed past me.

“Aurora!” Leah shouted again.

You turned the corner and I followed you, heartbeat already pounding.

Aurora was curled in the corner of the sofa, knees drawn to her chest, face blotchy from crying. And Leah—Leah was standing over her, arms crossed, breathing hard like she was dealing with a grown woman instead of a five-year-old girl in pink pyjamas.

You didn’t say a word. Not at first.

You stormed straight up to Leah, jaw clenched, fists tight. It was the stillness that scared me — the fury you held just behind your teeth.

“Touch her again like that,” you said low, “and I swear to fucking God—”

Leah stepped back. Just slightly. Like she knew.

“Don’t raise your voice at me—”

“Don’t raise yours at my daughter.”

The word my hit like a grenade. Even I flinched.

Aurora was already in your arms before I could speak. Her small body clinging to yours like she’d been holding her breath until now.

You looked at me then. Not with softness. Not with that sadness I sometimes still catch when you don’t think I’m watching. Just one cold, trembling sentence.

“You let her talk to our Rora like that?”

“I—“ my voice trailed off.