The flashbulbs were a physical assault. Even after five years of marriage to Jenna, and two kids who were rapidly adapting to this bizarre circus, it still felt like I was constantly walking into a wall of light.

"Okay, kids, stay close," I said, my voice barely audible over the rising tide of shouts. Leo, our four-year-old, clung to my leg, his wide eyes darting around at the swirling mass of people. Maya, a tiny replica of Jenna at two, was perched securely in her stroller, blissfully unaware of the chaos, happily chewing on a teething toy.

Jenna, radiating an effortless grace I could only dream of, squeezed my hand. "Deep breaths, honey. We got this."

"Got what, exactly?" I muttered, trying to maintain a semblance of calm. "Escorting our terrified children through a mob of ravenous autograph hounds?"

She chuckled, a warm, grounding sound in the cacophony. "Exaggeration is your forte, darling. They're excited to see us. Besides," she winked, "think of the free publicity for your bakery."

My bakery. That was the deal. I, the relatively normal, decidedly un-famous baker, got to live my passion while married to one of the biggest actresses in the world. It was a dream come true, most of the time. Except for moments like these, when a simple family outing felt like navigating a minefield.

We'd ventured out to the local park, lured by the promise of sunshine and the need for fresh air. Big mistake. Within minutes, the paparazzi had descended, followed by a throng of fans armed with cameras, pens, and fervent pleas.

"Jenna! Over here, Jenna! Sign this for my daughter!"

"Jenna, just one photo! Please!"

"Leo! Maya! Oh my god, they're so cute!"

Jenna, ever the professional, paused and offered a dazzling smile. "Hello everyone! We appreciate the love, but we're just trying to enjoy a family day. Maybe a quick photo and then let us get back to playing?"