Abstract Before the world became measured in deadlines, bills, and cautious silences, our greatest daily emergency was whether the neighborhood stray dog would guard our secret clubhouse or whether a homemade rocket made of baking soda and sheer optimism would take out Aunt Meena’s prized marigolds. We were professional architects of exaggeration. A grazed knee felt like a permanent medical tragedy, a lost eraser was an international conspiracy, and being sent to the corner for half an hour felt like an exile to a desolate planet. Every minor squabble with siblings or neighborhood friends carried the heavy weight of lifelong betrayal—until a whistle blew for dinner, or someone offered a half-eaten chocolate, and the universe instantly healed. Looking back from the far side of adulthood, those monumental disasters shrink into adorable, microscopic blunders. Yet, the most astonishing revelation isn't how silly our worries were, but the sheer, majestic grace of the adults who navigate...