The scent of scrambled eggs and buttery toast filled the kitchen, warm and golden in the early morning light. You shifted your weight from one foot to the other as you stood by the stove, a dull ache moving across your lower back — more annoying than painful, but definitely not going unnoticed. Hazel, barefoot in her little strawberry-patterned pajamas, stood on her stepping stool beside you, gripping her tiny pink spatula with intense concentration as she stirred the bowl of pancake batter like it held state secrets.

“Are they done yet, Mummy?” she whispered, as if whispering made the surprise more official.

“Almost,” you murmured, gently rubbing your belly as your daughter’s elbow nearly sloshed batter over the edge of the bowl. The baby gave a slow roll in response — not a contraction, not quite — just enough to make you pause and catch your breath.

You looked over at the clock. Still early. Simon was probably upstairs, cocooned in the rare peace of sleep, no doubt unaware of the quiet chaos being orchestrated just beneath his feet.

Hazel giggled softly as you poured the first ladleful of batter onto the hot pan, watching the edges bubble with awe. “They look like Daddy’s head,” she declared. You blinked.

“His head?”

She nodded, serious. “Round and big.”

You laughed—then winced as your belly pulled tight for a moment. It passed quickly. You inhaled slow through your nose, out through your mouth. Irregular. Still.

Once the pancakes were stacked high—Hazel insisted they needed at least five—you arranged them on the tray with a side of strawberries, a bit of syrup, and Simon’s chipped grey mug filled with coffee. Hazel picked a daisy from the jar on the windowsill and tucked it next to the plate, proud.

“You ready to wake up Daddy?” you asked.

Hazel nodded so hard her curls bounced.

With the tray carefully balanced and your daughter holding onto the edge, you both climbed the stairs together—slowly, because waddling up while nine months pregnant and mildly contracting is not for the faint of heart.

At the bedroom door, Hazel looked up at you, eyes bright, and you nodded.

She pushed the door open with all the importance her little body could muster.

Simon stirred, a groggy rumble from the sheets.

Hazel took a deep breath, puffed her chest out like a tiny sergeant, and beamed.

“Happy Father’s Day, Daddy!”