Five years later,
in a cozy house nestled in one of Melbourne's suburban communities, two little kids sat at a round glass breakfast table. The girl, Emma, was kneeling on her chair with both hands pressed down on the table, lifting her head eagerly. The boy, Andy, sat with his legs dangling off the chair, arms crossed over his chest. The morning sunlight streamed through the large kitchen windows, casting a warm glow over the scene.
"Mummy," Emma called, her voice filled with urgency, "Andy ate my egg!"
"No, that one was mine. You already had yours," Andy replied more calmly.
"No. Yours are not ready yet. Those were all mine," Emma insisted, her eyes wide with indignation.
