Daniel’s mornings always began the same. He brewed coffee while Claire made pancakes, the boys bouncing at the table. Ethan, nine, rattled off soccer stats, while Leo, seven, tried to sneak chocolate chips into his plate. Their laughter filled the kitchen, warm and ordinary, the kind of noise that anchored Daniel.
After breakfast, the boys scattered into the yard. Claire reminded them about homework, but her voice carried no real urgency. Daniel leaned against the doorframe, watching them kick a ball across the grass. The house felt lived in, layered with small imperfections—crayon marks on walls, muddy boots by the back door.