The Saturday Morning Caffeine Quest

Arthur, a man whose soul truly believed in the restorative power of Saturday morning coffee, descended the stairs. His mission was singular, his focus laser-sharp: brew. He imagined the rich aroma, the warm ceramic hug, the silent moment of peace before the delightful chaos of his children, Leo (8) and Mia (5), fully ignited. He reached the kitchen, an arena he usually navigated with the precision of a seasoned general. He spooned grounds into the filter, poured water into the machine, and pressed the sacred 'on' button. The gentle gurgle began – the symphony of impending serenity.

"Dad! My sock is inside out!" Leo's voice, pre-teen angst already blossoming, shattered the illusion. Arthur sighed, flipped the sock. The gurgle continued.

"Daddy, can elephants fly?" Mia appeared, her eyes wide with urgent, pachyderm-related curiosity. Arthur paused, mid-stir, "No, sweetie. They're too heavy." Mia looked devastated. "But what if they *really* tried?" The gurgle slowed.

Then came the crescendo: A high-pitched shriek. "Leo ate my last mini-muffin! HE ATE IT, DAD!" Mia wailed, a tiny, muffin-deprived banshee. Leo, muffin crumbs dusting his chin, offered, "It was unguarded territory!"

Arthur, now juggling a cold coffee mug, a philosophical debate about flying elephants, and a mini-muffin international crisis, finally poured his brew. He raised the cup to his lips, a weary victor.

Just then, his wife, Sarah, walked in, bright-eyed. "Morning, honey! Did you make enough for me?" She gestured to the nearly empty carafe. Arthur looked at his half-sipped, now lukewarm coffee, then at his wife's hopeful smile, then at the lingering crumb-dust on Leo's face.

"Of course," he managed, a single tear of caffeinated longing forming in the corner of his eye. "There's... always enough love." The coffee, however, was a different story.