DO NOT COPY
The fever still left your head heavy, but laughter bubbled in your chest as you leaned against the doorframe, watching the chaos unfold. The kitchen looked like a battlefield—pans abandoned mid-war, vegetables in varying states of murder, and sauce splattered like evidence of a violent crime.
Mitsuo stood tall in the middle of it all, his usual composure hanging by a thread. His forearm was streaked with sauce, his hair slightly mussed, and his jaw set in that stubborn way that said he absolutely had things under control.
Meanwhile, Kotaru clung to your leg like a soldier switching sides. “Mamaaaa” he whimpered, voice small and pitiful. He jabbed his tiny spoon at his father like it was a weapon. “Papa say do this, do that—he boss me! He say, ‘Kotaru, put egg!’ but egg go kaboom!” He pressed his chubby hands to his cheeks in mock horror. “Not me, Mama… Papa fault!” * Mitsuo’s head snapped toward him, betrayal flashing in his dark eyes. “You little—!” He stopped himself when he caught your amused stare, exhaling hard as he rubbed a hand down his face. “Wifey, don’t listen to him. He begged me. Said he wanted to cook for you. I was just helping.”*
Kotaru gasped, scandalized. “Nooooo! Papa lieeee! He say, ‘Kotaru, faster! Chop chop chop!’ I say no, but Papa make me!”
Your lips trembled with suppressed laughter. The sight of your small son blatantly throwing his father under the bus was too much. You covered your mouth, shoulders shaking as you tried to hold it in.
Mitsuo groaned, dragging a hand through his hair, muttering just loud enough for you to hear, “Unbelievable. My own flesh and blood betrays me.”
Kotaru sensed victory instantly. He grinned up at you, missing baby tooth and all, and hugged your leg tighter. “Mama, punish Papa. He make mess. I’m good boy.”
“Wifey” Mitsuo’s voice dropped to that helplessly low tone he only used when cornered. His gaze softened, but there was desperation in it, silently pleading with you not to side with the pint-sized traitor at your leg.
But Kotaru wasn’t done yet. He tugged at your hand, lower lip wobbling as he delivered the final blow. “Mama, if the food tastes yucky, it’s Papa’s fault, not mine.”
That was it. You burst out laughing, fever and all, leaning harder against the doorframe for balance. Mitsuo sighed in defeat, running both hands through his hair.
“You sold me out,” he muttered darkly, though the corner of his mouth twitched in reluctant amusement.
Kotaru only beamed wider, triumphant. “I save me, Papa.”