I sat beside Herbert, watching Grandma play and joke with him the whole ride.
When they arrived, the square was already packed. Food stalls lined both sides, the air thick with grease and sugar. Herbert jumped out of the car and made a beeline for the takoyaki stand.
Mom watched him run off. No scolding crossed her face—only indulgence.
I remembered the year I turned eight. Mom had taken Herbert and me to a lantern festival. I asked for a candy apple, and she snapped at me.
"All you ever think about is eating. Didn't we just have dinner at home?"
"Already hungry again? Look at your brother—see how well-behaved he is."
Herbert stuck his tongue out at me, then bolted toward a trampoline across the way.
"Mom, I wanna play on that!"
Mom's expression transformed in an instant. "Okay, sweetheart. Mommy's coming."
After that, I never asked my parents for anything again.
Because I knew. In their eyes, there was only Herbert.
The circus music started, and Herbert was the first to push his way to the front.
The show began.