I wake early the next morning, before the girls. The room is dim, pale light filtering through the curtains. Katie is still asleep beside me, her hair spread across the pillow like a fan, her breathing slow and even. I watch her for a moment — the rise and fall of her chest, the peaceful expression on her face.
Then I slip out of bed quietly and pad to the kitchen. Coffee. Eggs. Toast. A simple breakfast, but I make it well. The ritual of it centers me. Crack the eggs. Whisk them with a splash of milk. Heat the pan. The familiar motions let my mind work on the day ahead.
