It happened naturally, without pressure, the way good things sometimes do.

Now she’s sixteen. No longer a little girl.

She’s sharp, ambitious, the kind of student teachers pull aside to discuss “potential.”

And something in our house began to feel… off. At first, I couldn’t identify it, but slowly I realized Mike was part of what felt different—specifically the way he interacted with Vivian.

I first noticed it after a parent-teacher conference that brought incredible news.

“They’re recommending APs across the board,” I told Mike. “Chem, English, maybe calculus early. Isn’t that wonderful?”

Mike hesitated. “Yeah… but it’s a lot of work.”

“She can handle it. This is when it matters.”

Every night, Vivian spread her books across the dining table, her system flawless—neatly stacked notebooks, highlighters arranged by color.

I was incredibly proud.

But while I helped her plan and review, Mike kept interrupting. It seemed harmless—asking if she wanted a snack or a break—but even when she said she was fine, he kept pushing.

“I just want to finish,” she’d say, barely looking up as Mike hovered.

I didn’t intervene. College was still two years away. Vivian was driven. I believed she was headed somewhere big.

Then the ice cream runs began.

It was summer, and at first, they felt innocent.

Mike offered to take her out for ice cream as a reward for working so hard.

Soon, it became routine.

They’d come home with milkshakes, whispering and laughing in the kitchen like they’d pulled off some tiny rebellion.

I liked that she had something fun to look forward to.

Then November arrived.

Then December.

The sidewalks iced over, the wind cut sharply—and still Mike would grab his keys and ask, “Ice cream run?”

I laughed at first. “Really? In this weather?”

Vivian was already grabbing her coat.