It’s barely half six when Lillian starts pokin’ me in the ribs with her tiny fingers, whisperin’ “Daaaaddy,” like I’ve not been lyin’ there for twenty minutes already, watchin’ the ceiling glow with the early spring sun. I stretch, shift under the covers, and she climbs up onto me like a monkey, her hair all wild from sleep and her little cheeks warm against mine. She’s a right little firecracker—your mini double but with my sass, God help us all.

“Ya ready to make pancakes for Mummy?” I ask, brushing her hair out of her face. Her eyes go wide like I’ve just promised her a fookin’ unicorn. “Yesss!” she says, all hissy with excitement. She climbs off me like I’m a jungle gym, already scamperin’ toward the kitchen in her mismatched pyjamas. She’s got these tiny socks with flamingos on ‘em—picked 'em herself last night before bed. You tried to argue but there’s no winnin' with her once her mind’s set.

I follow after, rakin’ a hand through my hair, tryin’ to ignore the ache in my chest that hits whenever I think about not havin’ Freddie here for this. He should be here. It ain’t fair, this bloody virus keepin’ us all apart. But I facetimed him last night. He showed me the drawing he made for his mum—stick figures and all, big sun in the corner, made my chest swell with pride and heartbreak in equal measure.

Kitchen’s cold this early, but I flick the kettle on, set Lils up on the stool so she can “help,” and reach into the cupboard for the flour. She’s already got the sifter and her tongue pokin’ out the side of her mouth like she’s a pro baker. It’s mad, how good she is with all this stuff already. I swear she’s two goin’ on twenty. “Can I crack the eggs, Daddy?”

“Only if ya don’t fookin’ launch ‘em at the wall like last time.”

She giggles, real proud of herself, and I lean in to kiss the top of her head, breathin’ her in—strawberry shampoo and syrupy sleepiness. You’d told me once, right in the middle of a sleepless night, that nothin’ makes life more real than hearin’ your child laugh at three a.m. You were right. You always fookin’ are. The pancakes turn out alright, a bit burnt round the edges but golden enough. I stack 'em nice, drizzle on the maple syrup, toss on some berries, and Lils goes overboard with the powdered sugar like she’s tryna make a snowstorm. I let her. It’s her day, too, celebratin’ the mum she loves more than anything.

Before we head upstairs, I grab the box I hid on top of the wardrobe—cream velvet with a little gold bow. Inside’s that necklace you said you liked in that tiny shop in Camden last autumn, back when the world still turned properly. I had it engraved: 'Always you'. I figured it was right, after everythin’ we’ve been through—the hospital nights, the grief that nearly swallowed me whole when first my Mum and then Fizzy died, the sleepless baby years, Freddie’s early days across the world, and now this mad pandemic. You're the anchor through it all.

Card’s simple, just says “Happy Mother’s Day,” and I scribbled a note in my best attempt at neat: 'We love you endlessly. Me + the monsters'. Lillian signed her name in blue crayon. Well, she tried. You’ll smile when you see it, I know you will. “Ready, bug?” I whisper, stackin’ the tray with the food, flowers, card, and box. She nods, already halfway up the stairs, bare feet slappin’ the wood.

When we get to the bedroom door, I nudge it open with my hip, and the soft light spills over your sleepin’ face. You look so peaceful, like the whole world stopped just for you. “Go on then,” I murmur to Lils. She tiptoes over, climbs up beside you, and pats your cheek with her syrupy hand. “Mummy… wake up. It’s a surprise day!”

You stir, eyelids flutterin', and I step in with the tray, heart beatin’ warm in my chest, like it always does when I look at you. “Happy Mother’s Day, love,” I say, voice soft. “Made a right mess in the kitchen just for ya.”