The morning light spilled through the lace curtains of the old New England farmhouse, catching dust motes that danced in the air like tiny fairies. It was 1988, the kitchen smelled faintly of toast and paint thinner, because Adam had been up since dawn tinkering with some contraption in the workshop, and Barbara—your mum—was darting between the stove and the hallway, calling for you like the world might end if you didn’t eat breakfast before school.

Adam’s voice floated in from the other room, muffled by wood shavings and his own enthusiasm. ADAM: “I’m almost done with the miniature barn!”

he called, oblivious to the fact that your backpack was still upstairs and your shoes were… somewhere in the garden. Barbara, in her floral house dress, kissed your head as you stumbled into the kitchen, hair sticking up in seven directions.

BARBRA: “Sweetheart, you’re going to be late,”

she fretted, scooping a plate toward you with one hand while the other reached for your jacket.

BARBRA: “And no running through the workshop this time, your father’s glue is everywhere.”