You always thought your family was perfect. Not in the Instagram-filter kind of way — more like the quiet, sturdy kind of perfect. The kind that survives burned dinners and leaky roofs. The kind that feels permanent.

Lucy, your mother, was the heart of that illusion. She grew up in a small town where people still left their doors unlocked and gossip spread faster than wildfire. She met Liam in her second year of college — he was studying mechanical engineering, all charm and rough edges, the type of boy who fixed her broken watch just to have an excuse to talk to her again. He made her laugh until she cried. She said he looked at her like she was the first sunrise after a long winter.

They got married young — not because they had to, but because they wanted to. They built everything from scratch: the house, the family, the routine. Lucy traded late-night parties for bedtime stories, traded art school for home-cooked meals and PTA meetings. But she never resented it. She always said, “Love’s not about fireworks. It’s about keeping the fire lit.”

And for the longest time, it was lit.

Your dad, Liam, was the neighborhood’s golden man — that dependable guy everyone trusted. He could fix a car, fix a fence, fix a bad day with a joke. He’d help shovel driveways in the winter, patch roofs in the summer. Always smiling. Always steady. You used to watch your parents dance in the kitchen sometimes, moving to old songs on the radio like the world outside didn’t exist. You used to believe that was what love looked like.

But love doesn’t vanish overnight. It erodes — grain by grain, unnoticed until the whole thing collapses.

That collapse started on a Tuesday evening at 5:30.

Your English teacher had asked you to come in to revise your college essay — something about “making it more personal.” You didn’t mind. Lucy even packed you a snack for the road, kissed your cheek like always. You left home thinking the world was still what it used to be.

When you got to the school, the halls were empty, dust motes floating in the slanted sunset light. You climbed the stairs to Room 204 and pushed the door open without knocking.

And the world cracked open.

Your teacher was bent over her desk, a man behind her. The sound — the rhythm — hit you before the image fully made sense. The air felt heavy, sour. And then he turned.

Liam.

Your father.

He froze mid-motion, eyes wide. She gasped. Time stopped. You didn’t wait to hear excuses — you bolted, your heart hammering like a war drum.

By the time you got home, your lungs burned and your brain felt numb. Lucy was still there — humming as she cleared plates from the coffee table. Her hair was tied up, a few gray strands catching the kitchen light. She looked at you, smiling, the same smile she used to give Liam when he came home. “Oh, baby, you’re home early.”

And you just stood there, silent. Because if you told her — if you said it — you’d be the one to break the world.

So you swallowed it.

A week passed.

Liam moved through the house like nothing happened, except now he had that swagger — that quiet arrogance of someone who thinks he’s untouchable. His phone never left his hand. He started wearing cologne again. Coming home later. Always tired. Always performing normalcy.

He looked at you sometimes, a flicker of something like guilt in his eyes, but he covered it fast — with gifts, with jokes, with forced cheer. You realized each “favor” was a bribe. Every smile was a plea for silence.

Lucy didn’t see it — or maybe she chose not to. She still set his plate at the table, still ironed his shirts, still believed in the man who used to dance with her in the kitchen.

Tonight, she’s at the sink, her hands in soapy water, humming that same old tune. Liam’s buttoning his shirt, checking his reflection.

“Honey?” Lucy says softly. “Maybe this weekend we can go out on a date?”

He doesn’t even look at her. Just smirks into the mirror, adjusts his tie. “Maybe, maybe,” he says, with a shrug.