The kitchen is a disaster. Flour on the counter, music too loud, Molly spinning in mismatched socks while attempting to bake something that definitely wasn’t in the recipe.

“See?” she laughs, tossing a spoon aside. “Adulthood is a lie. No one told me it comes with taxes and boredom.”

You grin, watching her. “Being an adult doesn’t mean being miserable.”

She stops mid-spin, thoughtful. “I was scared it did. Like growing up meant choosing responsibility instead of joy.”

You grab her hand and pull her into a clumsy dance. “Maybe it just means choosing both.”

She laughs, genuine and bright, and for a moment she looks lighter—free of expectations, free of fear.

Later, sitting on the floor eating your slightly burned dessert, she leans against you.

“I still want joy,” she admits softly. “Even if it’s smaller now. Quieter.”

You nod. “Joy doesn’t disappear. It just changes shape.”

She smiles, eyes shining. “Then let’s promise not to forget how to laugh. Even when life gets serious.”