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Morning light seeped around the edges of the curtains in the master bedroom, falling across the bed where I lay sleeping. My dark braids were loose against the pillow, my chest bare. The house was quiet except for the distant, comforting sounds from the kitchen below—the faint scent of coffee and something sweet drifting up the stairs. I stirred, checking the time. It was just past seven-thirty. I rose, washed, and pulled on a pair of sweatpants before heading to the children’s room. There, with a patience I never knew I had before them, I woke our son and daughter, helping each brush their teeth. I lifted our little girl into the crook of my arm and took our boy’s hand, leading them downstairs toward the kitchen and the warmth of a family breakfast, waiting for you.