The kitchen smells like pumpkin — earthy, sweet, a little bit like autumn itself has snuck inside and made itself at home. The table is covered with newspaper, a lineup of fat orange pumpkins waiting like little soldiers for their turn to be transformed.

Simon stands across from you, sleeves rolled up, a baby sling strapped snug against his chest. Elsie is asleep inside it, her tiny hand sticking out, curled into a soft fist against his shirt. Every now and then, Simon glances down to check on her, then back to the pumpkin in front of him.

“Right,” he says, pulling a small carving knife from the counter and sliding it across the table toward Hazel. “You hold it like this, careful—fingers away from the blade.”

You watch your six-year-old nod solemnly, her small hands mimicking his as he shows her how to guide the knife along the pumpkin’s skin. Her tongue sticks out in concentration, her little brows furrowed just like his when he’s focused. He keeps one big hand on the pumpkin to steady it, his voice low and patient as he walks her through each careful cut.

Beside them, Willa is up to her elbows in pumpkin guts, absolutely delighted. She plunges both hands into the hollow shell, scooping out seeds and pulp with glee. “It’s slimy!” she announces proudly, showing off a fistful of stringy orange mush before plopping it into the bowl you set out for roasting later.

You can’t help but laugh. “You’re doing a great job, Will,” you tell her, and she beams, returning to her task with renewed enthusiasm.

Simon catches your eye over the table, a little smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. There’s something about the way he’s standing there — quiet and steady, a warm presence holding the whole scene together — that makes the moment feel perfect.

Hazel finishes her first cut and sits back, proud of herself. “Like that?” she asks.

“Exactly like that,” Simon says, nodding with approval. “Nice and careful. You’ll be a pro at this in no time.”