"Thank you," I say. "See? Someone in this house respects me."
Natalie reaches over and steals a piece of fresh bacon straight off my plate.
"Incorrect," she says.
"Not you too," I say.
Maddie laughs so hard she almost spills syrup on herself.
Saturday mornings.
Coffee mugs.
Lost bacon.
Group chat abuse.
Maddie yelling about skating practice from the kitchen table.
This is my life.
And I didn’t know I could want a life this badly until I had it.
Maddie hops off the stool.
"Time to go!"
Kids have exactly zero patience.
Natalie checks the clock.
"While your dad and I finish breakfast, go brush your teeth. Then helmet. Gloves. Jacket," she says.
Maddie groans dramatically and stomps toward the hallway.
Natalie watches her go, then glances back at me.
"I used to sleep in on Saturdays," she says.
"Yeah," I say. "But isn’t this better?"
She smiles softly.
"Yeah," she says. "It is."
I plate the last batch of pancakes. Natalie packs a water bottle, extra socks, and exactly fourteen things Maddie would absolutely forget if left to her own devices. Daisy stations herself by the back door and watches us with intense betrayal, as if the family outing should obviously include her.
"You're not going," Natalie tells the dog.
Daisy sits.
Then lies down with a dramatic sigh.
"She gets that from you," Natalie says.
"False. I’m dignified."
"You pouted over bacon ten minutes ago."
