No cupboard doors opening and closing with quiet efficiency.
No low hum of the coffee machine before sunrise because she likes five minutes alone before the chaos starts.
Just me.
And then…
“DAD! Ruby’s wearing a cape!”
Right.
Game on.
Breakfast is a military operation.
Oscar accuses me of uneven cereal distribution like I’ve committed a constitutional violation.
“You gave her more. That’s not equal.”
“It’s by weight,” I argue.
“It’s not.”
Sophie appears in the doorway, hands on hips. “Mum rotates fruit aesthetically.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“She does it in colours. It’s intentional.”
Ruby spills milk like it’s performance art and shouts, “RAIN!”
I’m googling “how to plait hair properly” while trying not to burn toast.
The toast burns.
Fuck.
But here’s the thing. I don’t feel resentful. I feel… responsible. In a good way. Not burdened. Not trapped. Just present. Today doesn’t feel monumental. It feels normal. It feels like I’m doing my part. Like this whole time she’s been supporting me while I worked and now I’m doing the same for her. And honestly? Seeing her excitement yesterday when she left was everything.
She tried to downplay it.
“It’s just a panel. And a shoot. And maybe a feature.”
Just.
Her eyes were shining. I want that shine to stay.
“Dad! I need ingredients for cooking class today!” Sophie yells from the hallway.
Double fuck.
Before panic can properly bloom…
“It’s okay,” she adds casually. “Mum already got them. She said they’re in a labelled bag in the cupboard.”
I open the cupboard. There it is. Labelled. Measured. Sorted.
Of course it is.
