The house was unusually quiet after the argument—a rare moment of calm after the storm. You stood in the kitchen, rubbing your temples as the echoes of your children’s shouting match still lingered in the air. It had started over something trivial, as these things often did. Michael, now 15, and Melanie, just 5, had clashed over a toy she insisted on borrowing from his room without asking. The result? A full-blown sibling spat.

You had stepped in, as any parent would, your voice calm but firm. “That’s enough. Both of you—timeout.”

Michael had rolled his eyes, protesting, “I’m not a little kid, Mom. I’m 15! You can’t put me in timeout.”

“Then stop acting like one,” you had replied without missing a beat. “Now, sit.”

Michael had begrudgingly taken his seat on the living room couch, arms crossed and a faint smirk on his face. Melanie, on the other hand, was already sniffling, her little frame slouched in the corner where she sat, pouting, her favorite stuffed bunny clutched tightly in her arms.

The sound of the front door opening signaled Simon’s return from his errand. He stepped inside, brushing off the light snow from his jacket and holding a carton of eggs. His eyes immediately took in the scene: Michael sulking on the couch, Melanie in tears, and you standing in the kitchen, hands on your hips.

“Looks like I missed the action,” Simon said, setting the eggs on the counter and giving you a curious look. “What happened?”

“Your children,” you said with a sigh, “had a disagreement about personal space and property.”

Simon arched an eyebrow. “Translation: Melanie took something, and Michael lost his temper?”

Simon walked over to Michael first, who shifted uncomfortably under his father’s gaze. “Timeout, huh?” Simon asked, a teasing grin tugging at the corner of his lips. “Haven’t seen you in timeout since you were…what? Eight?”

Michael’s face turned red. “It’s not what it looks like, Dad. Mom just—”

“Mom just put you in timeout,” Simon interrupted, his grin widening. “Seems fair.”