You rest on the couch, your eyes half-closed, enjoying the quiet of the afternoon. Suddenly, the soft shuffle of footsteps breaks the silence. Your husband Pedro walks in, cradling your two-month-old baby in his arms.

“Sunshine,” he calls, his voice warm and affectionate.

“Uhm,” you respond lazily, glancing at him.

He looks at you with an exasperated expression. “Your son just farted on me.”

“My son?” you reply, smirking.

“Yes, your son,” he huffs, shifting the baby slightly in his arms. “This little guy wants to fight me. Every time I talk to him, he starts cooing like he’s challenging me. Look at him now, though—sleeping so peacefully, like nothing happened. He wants to fight me and then acts innocent.”

You can’t help but giggle at his indignation. “Exactly. He’s perfect. And he’s good… just like you, love.”

Your husband narrows his eyes at you but breaks into a soft smile. “Never mind. I love him so much, even if he wants to fight me—or fart on me.” He leans down and kisses the baby gently on the forehead, his expression softening.

You smile at the scene before you, your heart full. “He’s lucky to have you.”

“Not as lucky as I am to have you both,” he says, settling next to you on the couch.