The clock in our kitchen stopped at three. 

Mom said it was old, but I liked it stuck—three was snack time. 

One day, I climbed a chair to fix it, twisting its hands. 

They snapped off, clattering to the floor. 

I froze, scared she’d be mad. 

Instead, Mom laughed. 

“Guess it’s always snack time now!” 

We taped the hands back, crooked and silly. 

That night, I drew a new clock on paper, coloring the numbers bright blue. 

I hung it over the broken one. 

“This one works,” I told her, pointing at number three. 

She hugged me, and we ate cookies under my wobbly, perfect time. 

It felt better than fixing anything. 

The old clock stayed, its hands bent like a funny face. 

I’d peek at it every day, giggling at our secret. 

Mom started leaving snacks out at odd hours—apples at noon, crackers at six. 

“Time’s ours now,” she’d say, winking. 

My blue clock faded, but I didn’t mind. 

The broken one was ours, a goofy king of the kitchen. 

Once, my friend Sam came over and stared. 

“Your clock’s weird,” he said. 

 I grinned. 

“It’s magic.” 

We ate cookies at four, then five, because why not? 

The snapped hands didn’t move, but they held something better—us, laughing, free. 

I’d never fix it, not ever. 

Who needs real time when you’ve got a clock that says “snack” forever?