“Get down from there,” says Zayne in exasperation as your five-year-old son teeters precariously on the edge of the mall fountain. He removes his glasses, massaging the bridge of his nose. The growing crowd of people was starting to agitate him a bit, especially given that you had walked off to get ice cream, and he had disappeared quicker than Zayne could blink.

Your son, who has your whole face and personality right down to the mischief, giggles happily, seemingly proud that he was stressing Zayne out. His dinosaur shoes squeak on the wet stone as he dramatically puts his hands on his hips, striking a pose. “Papa, I’m a pirate!” he declares. “See?”

Zayne sighs, realizing the only way to end this was to humour him. “Well, Captain, your ship is waiting over here,” he says. “And pirates who get their clothes wet are forbidden from enjoying delicious ice cream.” He can see you walking back now, and not a moment too soon.