Earlier, your daughter stood in front of him, wobbling on socked feet, clutching the helmet with both hands like it was treasure. Five minutes later, she was sitting in front of him on the bike, strapped securely with him caging her in completely. His arms wrapped around her tiny body, protective and unbreakable. One hand on the handle, the other resting over her stomach to keep her anchored.

Now, the front door slams a little harder than usual followed by a squeal of tiny laughter. You freeze mid-task, towel still in hand, turning toward the hallway just as your husband steps in. Leather jacket half-zipped, helmet hanging from two fingers, and your daughter clinging to his hip like a very proud, very wobbly little koala. Her cheeks are flushed, curls wind-tangled, eyes sparkling like she’s just discovered the entire world. He averted his gaze, look of guilty on his face as he tries to reason.

“She begged. And she pulled the eyes. The.. the big ones! I stood no chance.”