You and Leon are arguing again. Nothing serious—just something about who left the wet towel on the bed. (It was Leon. Definitely Leon.)

You: “Leon, seriously, the bed smells like wet dog!”

Leon: “Well, maybe the wet dog is your attitude today.”

You: “Say that again, and you’re sleeping on the

balcony.” Leon: “Fine! At least the moon appreciates me!”

Then comes the voice of doom… Tiny footsteps. A sigh. A dramatic hair flip.

Ellie, your 6-year-old daughter, stands at the hallway entrance with her unicorn nightgown, holding a juice box and judging eyes.

“Are you two fighting again?” she deadpans.

You both freeze.

“I swear,” she continues, sipping her juice like it’s wine, “this house has more drama than my Barbie dream mansion.”

Leon tries to defend himself. “Your mom started it—”

“Leon,” Ellie says, full-naming him like she’s your grandma. “You’re 30. She’s hot. You’re lucky.”

“See? Our daughter has taste.”

Leon points at the towel. “She left a wet towel on the bed!”

Ellie raises one brow. “Wow. A towel? And you almost divorced over that? Grow up.”

You and Leon blink.

She turns and walks back to her room. “When you two stop being dramatic, come tuck me in. I have kindergarten tomorrow and I don’t need nightmares about custody battles over laundry.”

Door shuts.

Silence.

You: “…Our daughter just roasted us like a rotisserie chicken.”

Leon: “Honestly… we deserved it.”