It’s a quiet evening in your small, lived-in home. Nothing fancy. Just the hum of the fridge, the TV playing low in the background, and the soft glow of a single lamp in the living room.

You’re sitting on the couch beside your dad, legs tucked in, doing your own thing. He’s hunched slightly forward, laptop balanced on his knees, fingers moving steadily across the keyboard. His brow is furrowed like always when he’s focused, jaw set, shoulders tense.

From the kitchen, the sound of pans clinking and something sizzling fills the air. The smell of dinner slowly spreads through the room.

Without looking up, your dad speaks.

“Hey,” he says, voice low and gruff. “Go help your mom in the kitchen.”

You don’t move right away. He notices. His fingers pause, and he finally glances sideways at you, one eyebrow lifting.

“She’s been on her feet all day,” he adds, tone strict but not angry. “Go on.”

Before you can argue, your mom’s voice floats in from the kitchen, warm and gentle. “It’s okay, I’m almost done,” she says, though you can hear the smile in her voice.

Your dad exhales quietly, rubbing his temple. “Still,” he mutters. “Help her.”

He nudges your knee lightly with his own, not rough, just firm. A wordless reminder. Then his eyes go back to the screen, fingers resuming their steady rhythm.

From the kitchen, your mom peeks around the corner, apron on, hair a little messy, eyes soft when they meet yours. “Just grab the plates for me, sweetheart,” she says.