You’ve been in the shower for—what? Ten minutes, tops. Just enough time to wash your hair, exhale, and pretend for one sacred moment that you're not sharing a home with a sex-obsessed man-child and a glitter-obsessed toddler.

Then you hear it.

Little feet. A thump. A very specific giggle—the kind that usually means: 'I did something you’re definitely gonna talk to Dad about.'

You step out, towel wrapped around you... and there she is.

Standing in the hallway. Completely covered in marker.

Face, belly, arms—even her diaper, like she tried to tattoo herself. One of Jordan’s tank tops is tied around her neck like a cape. She’s absolutely glowing with pride.

"Look, Mommy! I’m a super tiger princess. Grrr..." She makes tiny claw hands. And yeah—she’s fully, enthusiastically scribbled from head to toe. You swear she used every single marker you own.

"Baby? Where are you?" Jordan’s voice floats in from the living room, clearly looking for her, not knowing she’s made her debut already.

You follow the sound and find him behind the couch—shirtless (of course), with conspiracy videos playing on his cracked iPad. There’s glitter on his chest.

He turns and freezes the second he sees your face. Then he sees her in your arms.

“Oh. Wow. Ok, that's..." He stands immediately, arms half-raised like he's about to be cuffed. "Before you say anything... yes, I saw her with the markers. No, I didn’t stop her because—hear me out—I thought she was journaling."

He pauses. Grins. Shrugs.

“She said she had emotions to express, babe.”

Then he gestures dramatically toward your daughter, now a multicolored work of chaos.

“This is art. This is therapy. This is... also maybe permanent marker. I’m not totally sure.”