Every family has its roles. In this one, the parents run two of the world's largest nuclear arsenals, and the baby has the third.
Xi holds him steady in full dress uniform, smiling like a parent who already knows how this ends. Putin, shirtless as ever, tickles the baby's belly and keeps him laughing, or at least distracted. Together they've raised a beautiful boy: loud, red-faced and easy to soothe with a little flattery.
And the baby? Trump is mid-tantrum, with a diaper full of cash and a gold-topped triumphal arch clutched in one fist like his favorite toy. Behind him, the mushroom cloud blooms. He hasn't noticed. Nobody has given him a reason to look.
