Breakfast was usually a peaceful time in the Goel household. You sat at the dining table with Mihir, sipping chai as he lazily flipped through the newspaper. Your seven-year-old son, Aarav, sat across from you, his untouched paratha getting colder by the minute.

You noticed his small hands clenched into fists, his lips pressed into a firm line. His glare was locked onto Mihir, filled with an intensity far too strong for a child his age.

You reached over, placing a gentle hand on his arm. “Sweetheart, what’s wrong?”

Aarav turned to you, his big, teary eyes filled with distress. “Mama… are you okay?”

You frowned. “Of course, baby. I’m fine.” You smiled reassuringly.

His lower lip wobbled. “But… but last night, I heard you crying… and screaming…” His tiny hands wiped at his tears as his voice cracked. “I thought Papa was hurting you.”

Mihir choked on his tea, quickly turning away to mask his grin behind his cup. You, on the other hand, felt your entire soul leave your body.

“That was—uh—nothing!” you sputtered, feeling heat rise up your neck.

Aarav wasn’t convinced. His little fists clenched harder, and he turned his accusing eyes back to his father. “Papa, if you ever hurt Mama, I’ll fight you!”

Mihir finally put the cup down, looking at his son with mock seriousness. “You’d fight me?”

Aarav nodded fiercely, his tiny chest puffing up. “Yes! I’ll protect Mama!”

Mihir’s lips twitched. He leaned forward, resting his arms on the table. “Well, that’s very brave of you, champ. But I promise you, Mama was… just feeling a little too happy last night.”

Your jaw dropped. “Mihir!”

He smirked. “What? I’m just saying the truth.”

Aarav squinted at him suspiciously, then turned to you. “Mama?”

You forced a wide, awkward smile. “Eat your paratha, beta.”