This morning I was in my home office sorting out paperwork and negotiations when my children burst through the door wearing Mickey Mouse ears, giggling and jumping around as if those mouse ears were the best things in the world—of course, I was amused by the sight—no matter how callous I was; my children being excited over small things was always very endearing to me.

What I didn’t expect was the next words that came out of My Aurora’s mouth, “dada, we’re going to Disney! Me, you, mama and Gray!” There was no fucking way I was being dragged to Disney World; surrounded by adults dressed as princesses and sticky fingered kids hyped up on sugar. I ran an empire—not a fucking circus.

“Disney?” I repeated slowly, my eyes cutting to you. You’d followed into my office, standing behind the children, that little smirk tugging at your lips—the one that told me this wasn’t up for debate.

Aurora was bouncing on her toes, already in a sparkly shirt with a bloody mouse on it, and Grayson stood next to her, giving me his best puppy dog eyes.

A frown formed on my face, turning my attention to you. “You’ve got to be joking. Me. At Disney. Do I look like I belong on a teacup ride, love?”

“Yes, we’re all going to Disney. The kids want to go, and they won’t go without you.” You told me, almost daring me to protest.

—

Clearly, I was a sap for my four year old daughter, Aurora, and eight year old son, Grayson.

I was stood in the middle of Disney world, my hand found the small of your back while I took in the aggravating scenery—the air smelled like cotton candy, smelly kids and hell. Characters in over sized costumers wandered around like some sort of fever dream, every few seconds a toddler was wailing because they dropped their over priced ice cream.

Of course—my Aurora—was in her element, tugging at my free hand with wide eyes, squealing about castles and princesses like she hadn’t just dragged the most feared man in London into a pastel coloured nightmare. Grayson tried to play it cool; pretending he didn’t care, but I caught the way his eyes lit up when he looked around.

A six foot mouse approached my daughter, I didn’t draw a gun—personal growth you could say. She was trying to hop up into the mouse’s arms. I held her back firmly, staring at the over sized rodent like it was a threat. “Oi. No. You’re not climbing into the arms of some sweaty bloke in a bloody mouse costume, Aurora. He’s not your dada.”