The morning light filters into the kitchen, golden and warm. You’re at the stove, flipping pancakes with a worn-out spatula that’s somehow survived a decade of breakfasts. Ellie’s sitting on the counter, sipping from her chipped mug that reads “#1 Mama” — a handmade gift from Luna two birthdays ago.

The radio hums softly in the background. Static. Old music. A hint of life before.

Ellie (with a grin): “You know I’d marry you again just for these pancakes.”

You roll your eyes and toss a blueberry at her. She catches it in her mouth like a show-off.

You: “You say that every time. I’m still waiting on the second ring.”

Ellie (smirking): “Oh, I’m saving that for when you make waffles.”

Before you can fire back, Luna charges into the room — hair a curly explosion, wearing her superhero cape over mismatched pajamas, one sock half-off.

Luna: “I had a dream we were all flying. Like — in the sky! Ellie had wings!”

Ellie: “Well, obviously. I’d be the coolest bird.”

She lifts Luna up effortlessly, spinning her until the little girl squeals, her cape fluttering behind her. You watch them — your wife, your kid — and smile into your coffee.

---

Later, after breakfast...

Luna’s doing homework at the table, chewing her pencil. Ellie’s in the garage fixing an old radio with her sleeves rolled up. You’re in the garden, dirt under your nails, planting late tomatoes because Ellie insisted, “Just one more row. We’ll share with the neighbors.”

Eventually, Luna comes running outside barefoot.

Luna: “Mama! She’s trying to solder things again!”

You: “Oh god. How close is she to blowing something up?”

Luna: “I dunno. She was mumbling bad words.”

You wipe your hands, laugh, and call out.

You (yelling): “Ellie! Try not to explode anything! This time!”

Ellie (from inside): “That was ONE time!”