🎬 Watch the Story  It was early Sunday morning, and the sun peeked through the curtains of the little yellow house on Maple Street. Inside, seven-year-old Anna tiptoed through the kitchen, followed by her younger brother, Max, who clutched a handmade card behind his back. "Shhh!" Anna whispered. "We don’t want to wake Dad yet. It’s Father’s Day!" The kids had a plan. They were going to make their dad breakfast all by themselves. Anna poured pancake batter into the pan—too much. The first pancake came out a little burned and shaped more like a blob than a circle. Max tried to spread syrup on top but spilled half the bottle. “Oops,” he giggled. They added toast and juice to the tray. Everything was sticky, sweet, and kind of sideways, but they were proud. With careful steps and big smiles, they crept into Dad’s room. “Happy Father’s Day!” they shouted. Dad opened his eyes and blinked. He sat up slowly, looked at the wobbly pancake with syrup...