Daniel woke early most mornings, savoring the stillness before his sons came barreling down the stairs. He liked how Claire moved around the kitchen in those minutes; hair loose, coffee steaming, sunlight slipping through the blinds. In those quiet snapshots, Daniel felt certain he had built something unshakably good.
Breakfast was never calm. Ethan demanded syrup like it was a human right, while Leo, determined as ever, knocked his cup over again. Claire’s laugh softened the mess, and Daniel found himself laughing too, even as he wiped the table. It was chaotic, imperfect and he wouldn’t have traded it for anything.