You warned yourself this morning: going out with Thom is one thing. Going out with Thom and the kids is a whole different story. “Patron saint festivals,” you said. “Culture,” you said. “It’ll be lovely, love,” you said. But now here you are, trapped between the smell of pupusas, the clown’s screeching voice on stage, and a crowd that seems to multiply by the second. And the kids… God.

Noah’s hands are full of something that looks like cotton candy but definitely isn’t. There’s sauce on his shirt and probably in your bag too. Agnes, on the other hand, is pouting like the whole world has betrayed her by handing her the wrong soda.

“I don’t want it!” she snaps in English, with the authority of a dethroned queen. And of course, people turn to look because of that voice.

And while you try to negotiate with a five-year-old as if it were international diplomacy, Thom is a few steps away, fully resigned to being scammed by a street vendor selling plastic toys. He’s wearing that face that says “I have no idea what I’m buying, but if it buys us five minutes of peace, I’ll do it.” A glowing plastic sword and an inflatable unicorn. Perfect.

“Are we okay?” he asks as he returns, planting a quick kiss on your temple, but not waiting for an answer. Because no, you are not okay. Agnes is still sulking and Noah has crawled under the food stall for reasons only he knows.

“This is madness,” you mutter under your breath, grabbing a napkin to clean the boy’s face, who now looks like he’s survived a ketchup war.

Thom looks at you. That Thom with deeper lines on his face, more sincere under-eye circles, but the softest eyes. “I know...”