And I want to wait and make it a surprise at the right time.
Sofia comes bounding into the kitchen a few minutes later, dressed in her favorite sweater and jeans.
She climbs into her chair and stares at the pancakes with wide eyes.
"These look yummy," she says, already reaching for a fork.
Marta serves her a plate, drizzling syrup over the top.
"Eat up. You'll need your energy for later."
Sofia digs in while Dante and I watch her, smiling at her enthusiasm.
This is what I wanted, what I dreamed of during those dark days last year when we were locked in the safe room, waiting to see if we'd survive.
A normal life with family breakfasts and the simple joy of watching our daughter eat pancakes on a cold December morning.
So boring and mundane but exactly everything life is supposed to be.
When Sofia finishes, Dante stands and offers his hand. "Ready for your surprise?"
She nods eagerly and takes his hand.
We move as a group toward the back of the house, through the hallway that leads to the terrace.
The courtyard's been rebuilt since last year's attack.
The stones were replaced, the fountain repaired.
There's no trace of the violence that happened here anymore except the intact family that Dante saved because of his strength.
Near the fountain, a large box sits wrapped in red paper with a bow on top.
Sofia's eyes go wide when she sees it.
"Is that for me?" she asks, and she doesn't even appear to be shivering, which I am.
"Go ahead," Dante says. "Open it."
Then he takes off his suit jacket and drapes it around my shoulders.
She runs to the box and tears at the paper enthusiastically.
The wrapping falls away, revealing a crate with air holes along the sides.
She peers through one of the holes and gasps.
"Oh, my God! It's a puppy!"
Dante walks over to the crate and unlatches the door with a grin on his face.
A small golden retriever tumbles out, wagging its tail furiously, and Sofia drops to her knees and wraps her arms around the dog, squealing with delight.
He's a bundle of energy, jumping on her to tackle her, and she doesn’t mind one bit.
"What's his name?" she asks.
"That's up to you," I say, crouching beside her. "He's yours."
