Tom jerks awake from a nap he wasn't supposed to take. His neck is stiff from sleeping at an awkward angle on the couch. He squinted at his watch, blinking several times to remove the blur. The time came into focus and the clock read 5:17 PM.

"Oh crap! I overslept!"

He jumped to his feet and bolted to the kitchen. Sarah and the kids will be home any minute from Jack's basketball practice, and he promised dinner would be ready. He rubs his face vigorously, trying to force his sluggish body awake.

"Sarah's going to kill me!"

Broccoli cheddar soup. He promised soup for dinner, and it seemed simple enough. Fortunately, the recipe only took up one side of a four by six card. Not too many steps and quick to make. Seems simple enough–chop broccoli, onion, add stock, butter, cheese, thicken with flour. Simple. Easy.

Tom yanks open the refrigerator, grabbing broccoli and a block of cheddar. He rifles through the pantry for chicken stock while the butter melts in the pot. He was confident he could pull this off with time to spare.

His phone buzzes with a text from Sarah: Almost home. Starving!

His hands move frantically, chopping broccoli into uneven chunks, not caring about the mess he makes. The butter sizzles as he tosses in diced onions, whispering to himself, "OK, Sauté the onions, pour stock…see, not so bad, I've got this."

His eyes darted between the stove and the clock.

"Flour, flour, flour, where are you?" he mutters, grabbing a box from the middle shelf without looking at the label and measuring out a heaping cup of white powder, and then a little more just in case. The front door of their suburban home creaks open, and Tom dumps the powder in the simmering soup. He whisked as if his life depended on it, watching it slowly thicken.

Something seems off. The mixture is clumpier than usual, but Tom shrugs it off. He adds milk, the shredded cheddar, and dumps in the broccoli.

"We're home!" Sarah's voice rings through the hallway, followed by the chaos accompanied by backpacks hitting the floor, shoes being kicked off and a few moans and grumbles.

"Dinner's almost ready!" Tom shouts back, grating more cheese directly into the pot. "Just in time!"

Emma barrels into the kitchen. "I'm hungry!" she says, trying to stand on her toes to look into the pot.

"Watch out, it's hot," Tom warns, nudging her gently aside. "Go wash your hands. Dinner in five minutes."

Jack slouches in, basketball tucked under his arm, nose wrinkling. "What the heck is that smell? It's weird."

"Broccoli cheddar soup," Tom announces proudly, setting the bowls on the table as Sarah enters, carrying a stack of mail.

The family settles around the table, steam rising from their bowls. Tom watches expectantly as Sarah takes the first spoonful. Her eyebrows furrow immediately, but she maintains a neutral expression.

"It's… interesting," she states thoughtfully, trying another small bite.

Emma plunges her spoon in and brings it to her mouth without hesitation. Her eyes widened. "It tastes really sweet!" she exclaims, tilting her head in confusion.

The taste hits Tom like a slap. Sweet. Definitely sweet. And the texture is… off. Way off.

Jack, ever the skeptic at twelve, sniffs his spoon before trying it. His face contorts dramatically. "Ugh! What is that? Why does it taste like pancakes?"

"Pancakes?" Tom repeats, bewildered.

Sarah's lips twitch, amusement breaking through her initial surprise. "Tom, what exactly did you put in this?"

"Just the usual—butter, onion, broccoli, stock, and flour to thicken it…" His voice trails off as doubt creeps in.

Tom tastes it again. The broccoli and cheese flavors are there, but they're fighting against a familiar sweetness. "I don't think so," he says defensively. "Just the usual stuff."

Sarah's lips twitch. "Are you sure about that? Because this tastes suspiciously like you might have added something… breakfasty."

"Breakfasty?" Tom repeats, confusion genuine.

"Like pancakes," Sarah clarifies, a knowing look spreading across her face.

Tom freezes, spoon halfway to his mouth. The box. He didn't look at the box.

"Did you put pancake mix in our soup?" Sarah asks, laughter bubbling beneath her words.

"Ew!" Jack makes an exaggerated gagging noise, clutching his throat. "I'm going to throw up!"

Emma giggles, using her spoon to create shapes in the thick, oddly textured liquid. "Look, I made a smiley face in my pancake soup!"

"You know," he says thoughtfully, "it's actually not that bad. It's… innovative."

"What?" Sarah snorts. "Is that what we're calling kitchen disasters now?"

Jack makes another retching sound. "Dad, nobody wants breakfast soup." With each word followed with an over-the-top theatrical gag.

"You don't know that" Tom argues, pointing his spoon at his son. "People put maple syrup on all kinds of things…basically the same thing…"

Emma, never one to waste food, continues eating her soup with curious enthusiasm. "I like it!" she declares loyally. "It's like dessert and dinner together."

"See?" Tom gestures toward their daughter. "Emma gets it."

Emma beams, soup dribbling down her chin. "Dad," Emma leaned across the table and whispered, "I don't really like it. I was just being nice."

"Thanks, honey."

Sarah's eyebrow arches impossibly higher. "Interesting certainly is one word for it."

Jack makes another gagging sound. "Can I have a sandwich instead?"

"Fine," Tom conceded, pushed his bowl forward in protest and stood up. "I'll make sandwiches."

"How did you even mix that up?" Sarah asks.

"What can I say? I was in a rush," Tom explains, walking to the kitchen. "Didn't look at the box, just grabbed what I thought was flour. How many of you want a sandwich?"

Jack interjected, "Everyone. Nobody wants your pancake cheese soup, Dad."

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