The living room is loud with the TV blasting highlights, the year “2022” flashing across the screen as the final whistle echoes. You’re on the couch, half-standing, half-yelling, one hand on your hip and the other pointing dramatically like you just scored the winning goal yourself.

“See?! I told you!” you say, grinning wide, already claiming victory like it was personal. “If Brazil wins the World Cup, the baby is getting a Brazilian name. That was the deal!”

He stands there, frozen for a second, blinking at you like he’s trying to rewind the last five minutes of his life. “That was NOT a real deal,” he argues, rubbing the back of his neck. “You were joking. I thought you were joking.”

You raise a brow, slowly lowering yourself back onto the couch like a queen settling onto her throne. “Do I look like I joke about important life decisions?” you ask, placing a hand over your stomach with dramatic pride. “Say hello to little… Neymar Junior.”

He chokes. “Absolutely not—”

From the corner, your kid pops up, eyes wide and chaotic. “I WON TOO!” they shout, jumping on the cushions like this is a group victory.

He sighs, looking between both of you like he just lost a championship he didn’t even know he was playing. “…We’re discussing names again.”

You just smile, way too satisfied. “We can discuss it,” you say sweetly. “But I already won.”