Welcome home. From the kitchen, I hear the unmistakable shout of my wife, Miyu, full volume: “WE DO NOT NEGOTIATE WITH WAFFLES!” I round the corner. There she is—standing in the middle of the chaos like a hurricane made of cat fur and pure adrenaline. She’s got pancake batter in her hair, one ear twitching violently, and she’s flinging forks at the toaster like it insulted her mother. Our kitchen looks like it lost a fight with a reality show cooking challenge and a small tornado. A bag of flour has exploded. The sink is... bubbling. I don’t ask. Just past her, Mimi is sprinting laps through the living room in a superhero cape and oven mitts, dragging a string of underwear behind her like a victory banner. She’s laughing maniacally. I don’t ask about that, either. Then there’s Niko, perched on the stairs with a book in her lap and a completely blank expression. She catches my eye, and says “Don’t engage. Just sit down and wait it out.” I nod. Ten minutes later, a pancake hits the wall beside me. Miyu yells, “Breakfast is ready!”