It was already 10:42 a.m. when they pulled into the parking lot. Heat shimmered above the blacktop, and the air smelled like asphalt, baked glue, and too much cologne drifting out the open door of a boutique nearby.

The car barely came to a stop before Emily, the teenage daughter, yanked open the door. She didn’t slam it—she was past that phase—but she made sure it closed with an edge. Her earbuds were already back in.

“Alright!” Mom clapped her hands and bounced on her heels. “One mission: Mr. Whiskers’s prescription food. In, out, done. Who’s with me?”

“Me!” piped Jonah from the back seat. The six-year-old practically launched himself out of his booster seat, catching himself on the doorframe like it was monkey bars.

“Excellent. Let’s move, team!” Mom threw a dramatic punch into the air. Her ponytail bounced like it had its own energy source.

“We’re not splitting up,” Dad called after her, already watching her veer toward the glass doors of the mall with Jonah in tow.

“We’re not splitting up!” Mom repeated, turning back just long enough to wave her arm in a tight circle. “We’re just moving tactically!”

Dad sighed and looked over at Emily. She stood beside him in the heat, arms folded tight. Her shirt was black, her shorts were black, her mood—probably black too.

“You coming?” he asked gently.

She shrugged, which he took as a yes.

Inside, the mall was too cold. The air conditioning was up high enough to make goosebumps rise on Dad’s forearms. Somewhere to the left, a fountain gurgled halfheartedly. The tiles gleamed under the skylight, white and glossy.

Mom and Jonah were already gone.

“They’re not even pretending to stay close,” Emily muttered, tugging her earbuds out.

“Nope.” Dad adjusted his watch. “But I bet we can find them before they find the food.”

She snorted—just barely—but he didn’t react. Didn’t smile, didn’t glance. The game was on.

They walked past a window display full of paper butterflies and pastel sundresses. A woman was wiping down the counter of a smoothie bar that hadn’t opened yet. A little boy dragged his hand along the wall, letting it thump against each security gate hinge as he passed.

“I don’t get why we had to come,” Emily said. “You could’ve just gone by yourself.”

“I could have.” Dad nodded. “But then I wouldn’t have had the privilege of this meaningful bonding experience.”

She rolled her eyes. “Wow. Deep.”

They found Mom at a storefront full of yoga mats and vitamin powders, holding a small bag of flaxseed. Jonah was trying to balance on one of those wobbly half-balls, his arms windmilling.

“I told you to stay close,” Dad said.

“And I am!” Mom beamed, standing. “Jonah needed to use the bathroom, and we got distracted on the way back. Look—they have algae protein gummies now!”

Emily made a face. “Gross.”

“They’re delicious.”

“Let’s keep moving,” Dad said, steering his family gently away from the storefront. “The vet’s kiosk is upstairs.”

“Race you!” Mom called, already jogging toward the escalator.

“Mom—”

“It’s okay, I’ll keep him alive,” she called back, catching Jonah’s hand as he sprinted to follow.

Dad sighed.

“They’re like two golden retrievers,” Emily said.

He looked at her. “You’re not wrong.”

She didn’t smile, but she didn’t glare, either. She just walked beside him, matching his pace.

They rode the escalator in silence. Above them, Mom’s voice echoed: “No, Jonah, we’re not buying another glitter slime jar—your closet is a war crime.”

When they finally reached the kiosk—tucked between a candle shop and a store that only sold calendar puzzles—Mom and Jonah were already there. Jonah had something gooey and blue on his hands.

“Did you get the food?” Dad asked.

“Of course I did.” Mom held up the small paper bag triumphantly.

“I have slime,” Jonah added, waving his sticky fingers.

Dad looked at the sky like it might offer help. “Of course you do.”

Emily tugged her hood up, even though they were still indoors. “Can we just go now?”

He bent a little, keeping his voice low. “We can. But… I’m pretty sure I saw a pet boutique on the way in. Full of ridiculous cat hats.”

She gave him a side-eye. “Don’t even.”

“Picture it. Mr. Whiskers in a tiny fedora. Or a Viking helmet.”

“Please stop.”

“I think he’d look good in purple. It brings out his contempt.”

There was the tiniest hitch of breath. If you didn’t know better, you’d think it was a suppressed laugh.

But Dad didn’t press. He just patted her shoulder once and turned back to the family.

“Alright, team. Let’s head back before Mom talks Jonah into protein-flavored cotton candy.”

“Too late!” Mom shouted. “It’s spinach-mango swirl!”

Emily groaned, but her shoulders weren’t quite so tight now.

And as they walked out—together, chaotic and half-sticky and vaguely victorious—Dad smiled to himself.