It all started on an ordinary Sunday afternoon.
I was visiting my daughter, Claire, and her husband, Daniel, at their suburban home. I try not to visit too often—things between Daniel and me have always been… strained.
He’s polite enough, but distant. Too quiet. Always seems to have something to hide.
That day, I was helping Claire fold laundry when I excused myself to use the bathroom. As I passed the hallway, I noticed Daniel inside the guest bathroom, crouched near the shower. He didn’t see me at first.
I froze when I saw what he was doing.
The Balloons
He was carefully stretching a balloon—an ordinary party balloon—over the shower drain.
Not only that, but there were several more balloons on the shelf beside him. Blue, pink, yellow, even black ones. Dozens of them.
He looked completely focused, like it was the most normal thing in the world.
I stood there, stunned, watching for a few seconds before blurting out, “Daniel, what on earth are you doing?”
He jumped, nearly dropped the balloon, and mumbled, “Just…
