“It’s my school genetics project,” she said proudly, holding up a sterile swab. “Open up, Daddy! I need samples from you and Mom!”
Greg turned slowly. His eyes fixed on the swab, then on me, then on our daughter.
His fingers twitched like he wanted to snatch it away.
The color drained from his face. When he spoke, his voice didn’t sound like his.
“No.”
Tiffany blinked. “But it’s for school, Daddy.”
“I said no,” he snapped. “We’re not putting our DNA into some database. That’s how they track you. I’ll write your teacher a note. But we’re not doing this.”
I stared at him. We had smart speakers in every room and a camera on the porch.
“Greg, you let a device listen to you complain about fantasy football.”
His jaw tightened. “It’s different, Sue.”
“How? It’s a class project.”
“Because I said so. Drop it.”
Tiffany’s face crumpled. The swab slipped from her hand.
