The air feels heavy not because of the weather, but because of the sheer number of shopping bags, the weight of purchases, and the insistent squeaking of the cart limping behind you.

Pete walks ahead, carrying your son like a human shield holding him tightly to his chest with that same adorable clumsiness that’s never really gone away, even after years of this parenting game. His other two hands because yes, somehow he’s grown more according to your demands are full of grocery bags. Cereal boxes, canned goods, diapers, juice, and a bag of chips that mysteriously wasn’t on the list but still made its way into the cart.

You follow behind, not looking much better. Bags hanging from your arms like a stylish pack mule. The parking lot feels like the final stretch of the Hero’s Journey. And there’s still the pharmacy. And milk. And he knows it.

“How many more bags… do you think a normal human can carry?” he asks, not looking at you, his voice almost defeated, like someone who’s already lost an inner war.

The kid laughs and grabs at his face with tiny hands. Pete barely manages a smile.

“I’m a fallen soldier,” he mutters dramatically. “Send flowers. Let the note say: ‘Died in action: buried under Target bags and a drooling kid.’”

You finally reach the car. You hurry to pop the trunk while he drops the bags like sacred stones being offered at an altar. He stretches, groans, overacts. And yet, when he walks over to you, still holding your child, he lowers his voice and says quietly.