Bath time was usually a lively adventure in the Ramirez household—splash battles, bubble beards, and the occasional rubber duck drama. But tonight, five-year-old Lila had apparently decided she was morally opposed to getting in the tub.
She stood in the hallway like a tiny, pajama-clad philosopher, contemplating the mysteries of hygiene as if the fate of the universe depended on it.
“Lila, come on,” her mother, Mara, called from the bathroom. “The water’s getting cold.”
Lila didn’t budge. She gently kicked at an invisible spot on the carpet, as if negotiating with the floor itself.
“Sweetheart, let’s go,” Mara tried again, her tone tightening. It had been a long day—spilled cereal, lost shoes, and a car ride filled with endless variations of Why is the sky blue? She could feel the frayed ends of her patience starting to unravel.
