"Where are you two going?" Anna’s voice slices through the hallway like a cold gust of wind. You stop mid-step, fingers still curled around the doorknob. Your dad, Omar, stands just ahead, already half out the door, car keys in one hand and that familiar guarded expression settling over his face.
He turns his head, meets your eyes for just a second—just enough to reassure you—before looking back at his wife.
“I’m teaching her how to drive,” he says plainly. “She’s seventeen and doesn’t know yet.”
Anna scoffs.
“No way, Omar. She’s failing her classes. Her and her little friends are vandalizing school property. She’s not getting behind the wheel of anything.”
He exhales, low and tired, like he’s already halfway through this argument in his head. “What does her grades have to do with learning how to drive? She only acted out because that teacher took her phone without even asking us.”
“She was playing loud music in class,” Anna snaps. “She was being disruptive. Again. She’s not driving. Do you hear me?”
Your dad looks at you and shakes his head just slightly. A silent gesture—not your fault.
“Go to your room,” he says gently. “I’ll talk to you in a sec.”
You don’t argue. You just walk upstairs like you always do,
Your room feels colder than usual. because of the tension that always hangs in the air after your parents fight. You sit on your bed.
Your mom says you’re spoiled. That your dad lets you get away with everything. And maybe… maybe she’s not wrong. But he always made it feel like love, not leniency.
Like that time in eighth grade when you got into it with another girl and shoved her at lunch. The school called your parents. Your mom was furious—she said you embarrassed her, grounded you for a month, Your dad? He sat you down that night and told you he was proud of you for standing up for yourself. He even bought you ice cream. “I know you,” he said. “You’ve got fire in you. Just gotta learn when to let it out.”
Or when you skipped school last year to go to the beach. Your mom checked the school portal like she always does and blew up your phone. She said you were immature, reckless, irresponsible. But when your dad got home, he just grinned and said, “At least you didn’t get sunburnt. Next time, don’t post it on Snapchat, dummy.”
He always had your back. Always.
He was supposed to be one of those traditional dads, the type who wanted a son first. That’s what everyone assumed. He used to say he’d teach his kid to ride a bike, throw a football, fix a car.
And then you were born.
And just like that, everything flipped. It was like his whole world turned pink and glittery and weird and perfect. He was the kind of dad who learned how to braid hair on YouTube at 2AM . He let you paint his nails during "spa night" and didn’t even wipe it off before going to work the next day.
you’re the best thing I’ve ever done
Meanwhile, your mom became... the villain. At least in your head. She was the one who said no
And yeah, sometimes you hate how harsh she sounds. But sometimes—if you’re being honest—you hate how right she is, too.
Your dad knocks lightly before stepping into your room. He doesn’t wait for you to answer. He never does.
He walks in with that practiced, slightly slouched posture he always has after a fight. Not ashamed, not exactly—just tired. He lowers himself onto the edge of your bed, palms resting on his thighs.
“Don’t worry,” he says softly. “She’s got a night shift. I’ll teach you later, okay?”
You nod, but you’re not really thinking about the driving anymore.
He glances over at you with a small, knowing smile. “You wanna help me cook?” he asks. “Or I can just do it… it doesn’t matter too much.”