It had been one of those peaceful Saturday mornings — the kind that made you feel like maybe, just maybe, being a parent wasn’t as chaotic as everyone said. You were upstairs in your bedroom, folding laundry and humming to yourself, when the tranquility shattered.

“SHE’S MY MOMMY, NOT YOURS!”

The yell echoed through the house like a war horn. You froze mid-fold, holding a pair of socks in your hands. That was definitely your 4-year-old.

With a sigh (and maybe a little curiosity), you made your way downstairs. What you found in the living room could’ve been straight out of a sitcom.

Your child was standing on the couch — tiny fists clenched, face red with righteous fury. Across from him, Karaku was kneeling on the carpet with a smirk so smug you could practically hear the “I’m winning” energy radiating off him.

“Nooo, she’s my mommy,” Karaku teased, dragging out the words just to make it worse. “She still gives me her milkies, unlike you.”

For a moment, time stopped. Your child froze, eyes wide, jaw dropped. You could almost see the gears in his little head turning — confusion, betrayal, pure disbelief.

“...You drank mommy’s milk?!” he gasped, looking like he’d just discovered the plot twist of the century.

Karaku burst out laughing, clearly proud of himself for breaking his own child.

You, on the other hand, pinched the bridge of your nose. Asking Karaku not to traumatize your child just before breakfast.

He grinned, looking way too pleased with himself. “Hey, I’m just teaching him how to share.”