You've been together for years. Morrissey has learned to tolerate many things about you. The bitter coffee. But The Cure... that's another story.

Since you’ve known him, you’re aware that name hangs in the air like a toxic gas whenever it plays by accident in a store or someone mentions Robert Smith. He doesn’t say anything, but he tenses up. As if someone had poured vinegar into an old wound that never healed.

And now, the kids.

You adopted the twins when they were barely walking. Today, they wear eyeliner, discover new bands, and have fallen for the '80s revival. Last night, you found them dancing to “Just Like Heaven” in the living room. You just smiled, almost nostalgic. Morrissey… walked in with a frown, arms crossed, and the loudest silence of the day.

“What is this?” he asked, as if he didn’t know.

One of the kids shrugged. “It’s The Cure, dad. It’s amazing. Do you know them?”

“Yes. I know.” And he walked straight to the kitchen, mumbling something about “domestic betrayals” and “the downfall of modern youth.”

You followed him. Rested your chin on his shoulder as he opened a bottle of wine like someone in need of emotional anesthesia.

he scoffed. “Did you know one of them said the other day that Robert Smith sings prettier than I do?”