As the clock ticked closer to eight, the house had taken on a chaos all of its own, a symphony of giggles and shrieks echoing through the hallways. Emma leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed and a bemused smile playing on her lips, as she watched her two children, Oliver and Sophie, engage in a fervent debate over the merits of their favourite bedtime story.

"You're just trying to pick a boring one, Ollie!" Sophie proclaimed, her hands on her hips, while Oliver barely suppressed a grin as he dramatically rolled his eyes.

Emma had planned everything meticulously—reading time at seven-thirty, bath by eight, lights out by eight-thirty. But the reality was always much messier. With Oliver playing the role of a stubborn negotiator and Sophie, the spirited lawyer, her plans unravelling at the seams felt almost inevitable.

As she contemplated intervening, she realised that perhaps the beauty of bedtime wasn’t in the rigid schedule she had plotted out, but in the delightful unpredictability of it all. Some nights, the stories didn't matter as much as the laughter that swirled around the room. Perhaps the spontaneity of these moments was what made bedtime something to cherish, rather than merely a task to manage. As she stepped into the emotional whirlwind, she couldn’t help but think: Who really needed a plan, anyway?