Here’s a muchFor years, it was just Vivian and me. Her biological father disappeared, and I vowed never to subject her to that instability again. So when Mike came into our lives, I didn’t rush anything — or so I thought.
Vivian was five when Mike proposed. We’d dated two and a half years, and I believed he was perfect. Vivian liked him, even came to rely on him. When our son was born, she started calling Mike “Dad” on her own. For a long time, everything seemed great.
Now she’s 16 — brilliant and driven — but something felt off. It started small: Mike hovering while she studied, then their frequent “ice cream runs,” even in freezing weather. They took longer and longer, and Vivian came home quieter, flushed in a way that didn’t match the cold. My gut twisted.
One night I took Mike’s dashcam memory card. The footage showed them turning off toward an unknown street and entering a building I didn’t recognize. Nothing incriminating, but enough to worry me. I couldn’t sleep.
After dinner the next day, I confronted them. I told Mike I’d seen the video and asked where he’d been taking Vivian. She spoke first: it wasn’t his fault. She’d kept it secret because she thought I wouldn’t understand.
Mike admitted they’d been going to a dance studio — she’d been taking late classes since the summer. I was stunned. Vivian said she hid it because she knew I’d say no, and she accused me of only caring about her grades and treating her like a machine. She broke down in tears.
I realized I had been pushing her toward success and ignoring her happiness. Mike said he should’ve told me sooner,