“Homework?”
“Done.”
“Sweater?”
She frowned. “It’s not cold.”
“It might be later,” he said.
She sighed dramatically.
I smiled into my pillow.
Somehow, this had become our morning routine, Ethan overprepared, Lily unimpressed, me pretending to be asleep while enjoying every second of it.
When I finally got up, Ethan was sitting at the table, double-checking Lily’s bag.
“You know,” I said, pouring coffee, “most parents don’t pack for school like they’re preparing for an expedition.”
He didn’t look up. “Most parents haven’t experienced the trauma of forgetting permission slips.”
Lily nodded solemnly. “It was very upsetting.”
“I cried,” Ethan said.
“You did not.”
“I cried on the inside.”
She laughed and kissed our cheeks before grabbing her coat. “Bye!”
The door slammed behind her.
Ethan leaned back in his chair and exhaled. “Okay.”
I handed him his coffee. “You did great.”
“I know,” he said.
Later that afternoon, we drove out of town.
Lily kicked the back of Ethan’s seat absentmindedly. “Are we there yet?”
“No,” he said patiently.
“How about now?”
“No.”
She sighed. “This is taking forever.”
“It’s been seven minutes.”
The cemetery sits on a gentle rise, quiet and sunlit, bordered by trees that whisper when the wind moves through them. Lily hops out of the car first, holding the flowers she chose herself, careful not to drop them.
She knows where we are going.
We walk the path side by side, our steps falling into an easy rhythm. Ethan reaches for my hand without looking. I lace my fingers through his.
