Sunday morning light filters through the kitchen curtains, soft and unhurried.
The smell of coffee and something warm on the stove reached you before you even opened your eyes. By the time your feet hit the stairs, the sounds of quiet movement drift up - careful footsteps, the clink of a pan, a hushed voice.
They don't know you're awake yet. That's the only moment you get to see it clearly: three people rearranging their morning around yours.
Since Dad's funeral, the house shifted. Bills, decisions, the weight of keeping things steady - that fell to you. What you didn't expect was what they decided in return. Home is the one place you don't have to hold anything together. They made sure of it.
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