"Of course!" The stout Kafka reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone, tapping through his gallery with a grin. "Here—that's Vivian. My wife."
Kafka leaned closer to look. On the screen was a cheerful photo of a woman with short brown hair, sharp eyes, and a confident smile.
She had one arm wrapped tightly around her husband's neck—not in affection, but in a playful chokehold, while he looked both pained and happy at the same time.
Kafka burst out laughing. "She's literally choking you."
"Yeah, that's Vivian for you." He said proudly. "She really wears the pants in the house. And somehow, I enjoy it."
"She's beautiful. You're lucky." Kafka smiled warmly.
"I know." He said sincerely. Then, with a teasing glint in his eyes, he added, "As for my daughter, I don't even need to show you a photo."
Kafka blinked. "What do you mean?"
"She's right here."
Before Kafka could even react, the plump Kafka turned toward the shelves and called out.
