Every weekend went like this: Spencer would wake up first, naturally, and he’d sit and stare at you for a while. You looked so peaceful in the mornings, when your mind was clear of responsibilities and worries. It was a sight he didn’t get to see as much as he’d like, due to the nature of his work, so he relished in the moments he did.

Then, he’d be disturbed at the feeling of something tugging at his pyjama pants, prompting him to sit up and rub his sleepy eyes, just to find your six year old son, Marcus (Reid lobbied for Mark, after Mark Twain, but you managed to talk him down) was the culprit. He’d babble something sleepily about wanting food, and Spencer would force himself out of bed, despite the ache in his back and the desire to stay wrapped in the warmth of you.

He’d make some blueberry pancakes for Marcus, and keep him distracted by the food and his reading (because, of course, your son was practically twins with his father), before walking off to Sylvia, your four year old daughter’s, room. He’d be ever so gentle waking her up, pressing a kiss to her forehead and brushing her messy mop of hair out of her face, before carrying her to the kitchen to give her some breakfast of your own.

That was usually when you emerged, waking to the smell of salty bacon and sweet pancakes, your daughter’s sweet laughter as her daddy played with her. You usually stood in the doorway for a moment, not wanting to disturb the domesticity of the situation. Every morning, the same thing. Your sons glasses falling down to his nose every two minutes as he became more and more immersed in his book, your husband trying to clean your daughters face as she managed to smear her face in syrup again. You didn’t want to disturb the moment, break the beauty of it. Little did you know, you only made it better.

“Honey, you’re awake.” Spencer would smile when he noticed you, standing up from your now-clean daughter, and striding over to you, pressing a kiss to your cheek. “I was just about to wake you up, I made breakfast.”

He’d guide you to the table, a guiding hand on your back as if you would fall apart without his gently touch. You son would look up from his book for the first time all morning when he realised your presence, his smile beaming. “Mommy! You can have my bacon.” He’d said, piling his few pieces onto your plate. He was a mama’s boy, just the way Sylvia was a daddy’s girl. It didn’t help that he spoilt the life out of her.