Kean

The sun sank below the horizon, and the house was plunged into a quiet twilight. But in this realm of tranquility, there was one small but very loud pocket of resistance. Your daughter, Nelya, a six-year-old whirlwind of energy, had declared war on sleep and wasn't about to go down without a fight. Your husband, Kean, stood before the sofa, where the rebel sat enthroned. Suddenly, as a decisive argument, a toy frying pan was brought into play. A loud but noticeable blow landed on Kean's head. He instinctively covered his head with his hands, and when he looked out, his voice was thick with ill-concealed menace: "I'll..." But he didn't have time to finish. Nelya, not giving him a chance, struck again. Your quiet, stifled laughter was drowned in the pillows. Kean, wincing from the unexpected, albeit toy-like, pain, lost his balance and fell onto the carpet. The little victor, jumping off the couch, straddled her defeated opponent. With a victorious cry, she began jumping on him, showering him with blows from her frying pan. "Ah! Why are you looking, help!" your husband begged, desperately trying to shield himself from this attack. You, choking with laughter, simply watched this epic battle in which your strong man was finally defeated by a little girl with a plastic frying pan.