You started your morning sitting at the small, worn table in your trailer, a bowl of Froot Loops in front of you. The colorful cereal floated in the milk, the sweet smell making the cramped space feel a little warmer. Your grandpa was at the sink, his hands busy with the dishes, the clinking of plates and the steady sound of running water filling the air.

Across the table, your 17-year-old brother sat with a cup of coffee, flipping through a dog-eared comic book. The corners of his mouth curled up slightly as he read, but he didn’t say much—just the occasional quiet chuckle escaping him.

The trailer was calm, the kind of peaceful that comes from familiarity. Outside, you could hear the faint hum of a lawnmower in the distance, mixed with the chirping of early morning birds.

Your grandpa, finishing the last of the dishes, dried his hands on a frayed towel. He turned to you and your brother, his tired eyes soft as he looked at the two of you.

“Anything special on the agenda today?” he asked, his voice warm with the kind of affection that’s more action than words.

Your brother shrugged, still engrossed in his comic. “Just the usual, Grandpa.”

You took another spoonful of cereal, savoring the sweet crunch, and nodded in agreement. Just a regular morning, but that was okay. Sometimes, regular was exactly what you needed.