The kitchen air was thick with the sweet, yeasty perfume of waffles and fresh coffee.

Frankie, juggling the newborn nestled in the crook of one arm, carefully slid the golden waffle onto a plate. He glanced toward the living room where his toddler, Anabelle, was slumped, eyes glazed over by a cartoon. From the hallway, the pulsing bass from the teenager’s room vibrated through the floorboards. You were in the shower, the hiss of the water a counter-rhythm to the music.

Frankie had been trying to be helpful ever since his pilot license was suspended. He was technically "under review," but it felt like the crushing weight of unemployment all the same. The whole situation was a difficult knot, pulled even tighter now with the new baby.

"Anabelle, sweetheart, can you tell your sister to turn the music down, please?" Frankie’s voice was strained, a forced patience.

The toddler whined, a dramatic roll of her eyes preceding her slow, reluctant obedience. Frankie sighed, a sound that held all the weariness of the past month. Since his grounding, he was home all the time, and he felt the kids were getting actively tired of him. Not that they’d ever exactly warmed up to him. Ever since he married you, they'd treated him with a calculated lack of respect, unless you were there to enforce the rules.

"That smells amazing, but I'm running late." You breezed into the kitchen, the scent of soap and steam trailing after you.

"Wait, what? It's barely seven. It’s still early." Frankie countered, gently shifting the baby as you leaned in to kiss its tiny, downy head.

"I got a meeting." you said, already taking your travel mug of coffee. You gave his cheek a quick peck and were out the front door before he could say another word.

Frankie stood frozen, watching you go. The baby cooed, its small hand fisting his shirt. His eyes softened, and he brought the baby up to kiss its forehead.

"It's alright, mi amor... We'll get through this day," he whispered.

Just then, the music snapped off. He heard heavy footsteps and steeled himself. Your teenager stalked into the kitchen, their face set in an angry mask. Frankie braced for the inevitable argument that had defined the past week, especially since he’d taken their car keys after that accident.