“Hey.” Greg was already distracted. He kissed my cheek absentmindedly and headed for the fridge.
Tiffany reappeared and jumped up to hug him.
“Hey, bug. What’s all this about?” Greg asked, nodding to the kit.
“It’s my genetics project for school,” she said, holding up a sterile swab like a trophy. “Open up, Daddy! I need a sample from you and Mom!”
“Hey, bug. What’s all this about?”
Greg turned. He looked at the swab, then at me… then at our daughter. His fingers flexed like he wanted to snatch it out of her hand. His face lost every hint of color. His voice, when it came, didn’t belong to the man I married.
“No.”
“Huh?” Tiffany blinked. “But it’s for school, Daddy.”
“I said no,” he snapped. “We’re not putting our DNA into some surveillance system. That’s how they track you. I’ll give you a note for school, Tiffany. But we’re not doing this.”
“We’re not putting our DNA into some surveillance system.”
I looked at my husband: we had Alexa in every room, Echo in the hallway, and a Ring camera on the porch — and I frowned.
“Greg, you let a speaker listen to you complain about your fantasy football league.”
