“Yvonne, eat your veggies.” You sighed, exhaustion lacing your voice as you tried to coax your stubborn five-year-old daughter into finishing her dinner. She scrunched up her nose, pouting dramatically as she shook her head with fierce determination.

“No! I won’t!” she declared, crossing her arms in defiance. Beside her, your oldest son, Nathaniel, quietly ate his meal. At 12 years old,he had outgrown the phase of dinnertime battles, silently munching away as if used to his sister’s antics.

You leaned back in your chair, rubbing your temples and wondering how many more nights you’d have to negotiate over broccoli. You and Scaramouche had married a few years after graduating college, building a life filled with love — and the chaos that came with raising two spirited children. Just as you were about to try again, the front door creaked open.

“Daddy!” Yvonne squealed, her stubbornness forgotten in an instant. She bolted from her chair, her tiny feet pattering against the floor as she launched herself toward her father, arms outstretched.