You’re in the kitchen, sorting through a pile of laundry, when the sound of giggles from the living room catches your attention. You peek around the corner to find Fred kneeling on the floor next to your son, their heads close together, whispering conspiratorially.

“Alright, remember what I said,” Fred murmurs. “Timing is everything.”

Your little one nods, his wide eyes. “Got it, Daddy! Timing is everyfing!”

You fold your arms and lean against the doorframe, smiling to yourself. Whatever Fred is up to, it’s bound to be trouble—but the good kind of trouble, the kind that fills your home with laughter.

“Fred,” you call out, your tone suspicious, “what are you teaching our child?”

Fred looks up, a cheeky grin spreading across his face. “Nothing at all, love. Just passing on a bit of harmless WeaIley wisdom.”

Your son looks up at you with an innocent smile that is far too similar to Fred’s. “Daddy says we have to wait until you’re not looking.”

“Betrayed by my own flesh and blood,” Fred says, feigning offense.

You arch an eyebrow, stepping further into the room. “I’d like to know what I’m supposed to ‘not be looking’ at.”

Fred scoops your little one into his arms, giving them a wink. “Should we show Mummy?” he asks, and your son claps his hands eagerly.

Fred produces a small, harmless whoopee cushion and places it under one of the couch cushions. He sits down theatrically, and the resulting loud phfffft sends your child into a fit of uncontrollable giggles.

“You’ve corrupted them,” you say, shaking you can’t help but laugh.

Fred grins at you. “Corrupted? I prefer ‘enlightened.’”

Your son wiggles out of Fred’s arms and races toward you, holding the whoopee cushion in his hands. “Mummy, it’s funny!”

You crouch down to his level, pulling them into a hug. “It is funny,” you admit, kissing the top of his head. “But only if Daddy cleans up after all the pranks.”

“Deal!” Fred calls out from the couch, his grin wide as he leans back, clearly proud of himself.