The Sunday afternoon light spilled through the kitchen window in long, lazy stripes, warming the floor where my daughter sat with her stuffed rabbit tucked under her arm.
The house smelled of roast chicken and the cinnamon I had stirred into the apples earlier.
For a moment, I let myself believe the day might be gentle.
Lily looked up at me and patted the rabbit’s ear, then patted her own.
“Same, baby,” I whispered. “You both have soft ears.”
She giggled, that quiet, breathy giggle that always undid me.
Daniel walked in carrying a stack of plates, his sleeves rolled up to his elbows.
He kissed the top of my head as he passed.
“She slept okay last night?” he asked.
“She lined up every animal twice,” I said. “Kissed each one. The penguin got two kisses.”
“The penguin always does.”
I smiled, but my hands kept moving across the counter, restless.