It’s a rare Friday morning. No early practices, no calls from Emily’s office, no schedules packed from dawn. You’d think that would make mornings easier. You glance at the clock, mug of coffee in hand, and already you can hear the familiar sounds—the soft groans, the muffled blankets shifting, the occasional thump as someone rolls over stubbornly. The girls love their sleep. All of them, each in their own stubborn way.

You start with June, who’s probably rolled into a tangle of sheets that could hide a small animal. “June,” you call softly at first, then louder when she doesn’t respond, “it’s time to get up.”

A groan. A muttered “five more minutes.” You roll your eyes, crossing the room to yank the covers back slightly. She sits up, hair all over her face, hazel eyes half-lidded with the early-morning struggle. “It’s Friday,” she complains. “It’s practically a holiday.”

“I know,” you say, trying to keep your voice calm, “but your sisters are already halfway through breakfast. You can join them or risk missing the last of the pancakes.” You glance at Emily, who’s leaning casually in the doorway, half-smile teasing but supportive. “Want me to make this easier?” she asks, tilting her head.

June flops back, dramatic as ever, but eventually swings her legs off the bed. You follow the same routine with Eleanor—her sarcasm hits before her eyes even open. “Why are you already here?” she mutters, hair perfectly long but slightly mussed, blue eyes blinking at the sunlight. You remind her about breakfast and promise to help her organize debate notes later if she can get dressed. She sighs, mutters “fine,” but moves.

Phoebe is easier; the dreamy middle child is curled under her covers, still half-asleep but willing to respond when you crouch by her bed. “Pancakes?” you ask. She nods, slowly coming around, tousled dirty-blonde curls falling in front of her brown eyes. Clara is loud even in sleep—literally bouncing in her sheets before you’ve even reached her room, arms waving as if she’s already played three sports this morning. You laugh quietly, shaking your head.

By the time all four girls are in the kitchen, you and Emily are pouring coffee, Emily leaning against the counter in that calm way she has, letting you handle most of the herding. There’s teasing and bickering over syrup and who gets the last pancake, but mostly it’s warm and alive, chaotic in the way mornings at your house always are.