Theo's POV
The pizza process began at four-thirty.
This was non-negotiable. Theo had established Pizza Friday with the legislative certainty of someone who understood that traditions required consistency to function and had no patience for adults who treated sacred routines as flexible. Four-thirty meant four-thirty. Not four-forty. Not in a minute, Theo, Maman is just finishing something.
Four-thirty.
I had learned this the hard way approximately six months ago and had not tested it since.
At four twenty-eight he appeared at the kitchen doorway in his apron — navy blue, printed with small anchors, bought at a market in the 9th three months ago and worn every Friday without exception — with Gerald under one arm and the expression of someone arriving at work.
"It's time," he said.
"
