The sound of the fan spinning, the distant laughter of your son with his boyfriend out by the pool, the soft hiss of a can opening—another beer. Pete is sprawled on the couch like he’s part of the furniture, his T-shirt wrinkled, the TV remote resting on his chest, eyes half-open as he flips through channels without really watching.

“That damn skinny kid’s in the pool again…” he mutters to himself, but loud enough for you to hear.

You don’t respond. It’s not worth it. Pete has always been complicated, even in his affection. He loved his kids from the very first day, held them when they were babies, lost sleep for them, defended them from teachers and neighbors. But when they grew up and dared to be who they were, that love filled with warnings. “Choose wisely,” he’d say, as if love could be the wrong decision.

Your son laughs loudly outside. His boyfriend, a sweet kid, accidentally splashes him, and he yells in mock outrage. From the couch, Pete grits his teeth. He glances at you but says nothing. Takes a long sip and sets the can aside, among three others. You didn’t tell him your daughter was coming today. Or that she wasn’t coming alone.

You feel your phone vibrate. A message. “We’re close, do you need anything from the store?” You reply no, with a smiley face. And still, you say nothing to Pete.

An hour later, the doorbell rings. Pete doesn’t move. Doesn’t even lift his head.

You open the door. Your daughter smiles, that same smile she inherited from you. Her girlfriend is holding her hand. A girl with radiant energy.

“Smells like trouble,” Pete says from the couch, without moving, without looking.

Your daughter walks in with confidence. Her girlfriend greets politely, but Pete doesn’t respond. He stares at the TV. But you know him. He’s listening to every word.

“Hi, Dad,” your daughter says, already bracing for the tension.

“So now the house is a parade of boyfriends and girlfriends? Just missing the banners.”