The house was quiet. Not the usual chaotic quiet that happens when I hide in the pantry to eat a chocolate bar, but a genuine, echoing silence.
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By seven, breakfast is a negotiation. Cereal, but only the kind with the red box. Fruit that must be cut into dinosaurs. I make a face and hand him a bowl of strawberries anyway—some fights aren’t worth winning. He tells me, solemn as a small judge, that his sneaker is broken. I inspect it with all the gravitas of a mechanic and declare it “repairable.” The tie I use is a strip of duct tape, a temporary patch that makes him grin and run outside as if he owns the sun. The house was quiet
And the first thing I noticed wasn’t her face, or her smell, or even the overwhelming, terrifying crush of love. It was the second heartbeat in the nursery monitor. By seven, breakfast is a negotiation