You’re in the kitchen, flipping pancakes with one hand, holding a spatula like a sword with the other, trying to entertain a sleepy Amara who's leaning against the counter in one of your oversized hoodies.

She smiles at you like she’s still falling in love. (And honestly? She is.)

Then— The sound of slippered feet down the hallway.

Arlo, your 5 year old son who acts like he's 84.

Robe. Mug. Frown like he’s already lived through a recession.

“Good morning, Father. Mother,” he says with a slow nod, like he’s greeting fellow council members at a village meeting.

Amara hides a grin behind her mug. You respond, “Good morning, Sir Arlo of the Worn Slippers.”

He adjusts his imaginary tie. “I trust breakfast is being prepared with the usual level of… competency?”

You place pancakes in front of him. He eyes them suspiciously. “There’s cinnamon,” you offer, like a bribe.

He exhales through his nose. “Adequate. Barely.” He cuts a triangle, chews. Nods once.

Amara leans in and whispers, “Do you think we should send him to live with my dad so they can be grumpy together?”