Morning light slid across the crowded table as Papa knelt beside Vivaan’s chair. His glasses caught a pale gold gleam. “I was wrong to say later again,” he said, his voice quiet and steady.

Then he put his phone facedown and added, “Every Saturday morning belongs to us now. No office work. Just you and me.” Vivaan rubbed his little red shovel handle and stared at the floor. He wanted to believe Papa, but his heart stayed careful.