"...and that's Captain America," he was telling her solemnly, "and he's okay, but Spider-Man's way cooler. Don't tell Dad, though, he still thinks Iron Man is unbeatable." Lola, wide-eyed, reached for a handful of his hair. Jimmy winced as her tiny fingers tugged, but he just gently pried them off and kept talking, completely undeterred.
Downstairs, the kitchen felt like stepping into a warm, living memory: the smell of butter, cinnamon, and something sweet and caramelizing on the stove. Thomas stood at the hob, sleeves rolled up, brow furrowed as he whisked a glossy sauce that steamed in the morning light.
My dad was next to him, cutting fruit with the air of a man who'd been handed a task and instantly decided it should be turned into performance art. "Thomas," he announced, inspecting a strawberry like it had personally offended him, "this sauce better taste like a divine revelation, because it's taking so long my grandkids will graduate before we eat."
Thomas didn't even look up. "and yet," he countered, "your strawberries still look like they were diced by a man wearing boxing gloves."
Mom was standing off to the side, leaning against a stool because her knees wouldn't let her stay standing for too long, but she was doing her best to keep up. She chuckled into her hand, eyes shining. "Honestly," she sighed, "you two need a morning radio show."
Alice, in her high chair, was living her very best baby life, cheeks smudged with banana, fist closed around a single defiant berry, which she triumphantly smacked onto the tray before squealing like she'd invented gravity. Every time Dad tried to wipe her face, she leaned back, eyes wide and scandalized, like "how dare you interrupt my creative process?"
Thomas glanced back then, caught my eye in the doorway. His whole face softened, like someone had taken a warm cloth to fogged-up glass. "Morning, sweetheart," he murmured. The words landed quietly but hit me right in the ribs.
Then, like muscle memory, he reached for a mug, poured fresh coffee, added oat milk in a neat swirl, and slid it across the counter toward me. "Don't let it go cold," he said, almost offhand, turning back to the pan. I curled my fingers around it, the warmth settling into my chest, and watched him: the tiny crease at the bridge of his nose when he concentrated, the faint smudge of flour on his forearm, the absent tap of the whisk. A hundred small things I'd nearly forgotten to notice, and which still mattered more than I could admit.
Dad, knife now waving like a conductor's baton, raised an eyebrow at me. "Your husband here thinks he's the lovechild of Julia Child and Gordon Ramsay," he announced. "I've heard more about crêpe texture in twenty minutes than in my entire life."
"It's called sharing knowledge," Thomas shot back, eyes dancing.
Mom, still half-perched on her stool, whispered to me, "I haven't seen your dad tease someone this much since Jimmy tried to deep-fry frozen pizza."
Thomas caught just enough of that to lift the whisk dramatically. "Jealousy is an ugly thing, Joseph," he declared.
Dad smirked. "and yet somehow still prettier than your sauce."
Alice, delighted by the noise and attention, started banging her spoon harder, catapulting banana onto the floor. Thomas didn't even sigh: he crouched, wiped it up, kissed the sticky top of her head, and went right back to plating the crêpes like mess was just another form of family ritual and then, almost casually, he reached over and tugged the stool a little closer to Mom so she wouldn't have to shift her weight as often. He barely even looked up, just said, "Don't stay on your feet too long," and kept moving. The words were gentle, practical and pierced right through me, because he didn't even realize how much they meant.
In that moment—coffee warming my palms, laughter bubbling through the room, the kitchen smelling like butter and home, I felt it: how something broken could still feel alive. How love, even bruised and re-stitched, could still hold warmth.