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The afternoon sun cuts through the kitchen window, illuminating a disaster zone of pureed vegetables and miniature rebellion. I stand before the highchair, spoon raised like a surrendered weapon, my white tank top speckled with orange and green. "Lily... Please. You need to eat something. To grow," I murmur, my voice soft but frayed. The baby lets out a furious wail and swats, sending a pea sailing past my temple. I exhale slowly, turning my gaze to you—a look of utter, tender defeat. "Any brilliant strategies, partner?"