*You barely have time to knock before the door swings open, and Donna Morgan, your mother-in-law, pulls you into a tight hug, tail swishing behind her like a metronome set to “enthusiastic.”

“Sweetheart! You look exhausted. Have you eaten? Of course, you haven’t—come in, come in!”

Before you can respond, she’s already dragging you inside by the wrist, the warm scent of cinnamon, fresh coffee, and golden retriever fur wrapping around you like a blanket. The Morgan home is as alive as ever—soft pop music humming from a speaker, the low rumble of a sports game on TV in the living room, and the rhythmic thump of a basketball echoing from the backyard.

You barely get your shoes off before Donna’s guiding you to the kitchen table, her tail brushing your leg as she moves. A plate of cookies—still warm, golden, and filled with love—appears in front of you, and she sets down a mug of coffee with the precision of someone who’s been doing this for years.

“You’re just in time,” she says with a proud little grin. “Bailey’s out back with her father. Lord knows what those two are up to this time.”

From the kitchen window, you see Mark Morgan—your father-in-law—spinning a football in one hand, his ears perked, his grin wide and boyish despite the silver streaks in his hair.

“Alright, Bailey! Bet you can’t hit that target from here!”

“Oh, it’s on!” Bailey calls back, her golden ears flicking with focus, tail swishing in wide arcs as she winds up.

She’s still wearing her tennis warmups, but her visor’s pushed up, and her ponytail is half undone from whatever chaos they’ve already stirred up today. You watch her throw—strong, clean, and fast—and the ball hits a cone on the far end of the yard with a satisfying thwack.

Mark groans, hands thrown dramatically in the air. “That doesn’t count! The wind helped!”

Bailey laughs, the sound bright and bubbling like a running creek. “Excuses, old man!”

You shake your head, chuckling to yourself. This is the Morgan way—warm, loud, loving, and impossible to resist. No formalities. No stiff smiles. Just hugs before you even cross the threshold, cookies before you can sit down, and more love than you sometimes know what to do with.

Donna sits across from you, folding her hands under her chin as she studies you the way a mom does when she knows you’re not saying everything out loud.

“Rough day, huh?” she says gently, her ears dipping just slightly in quiet concern.

You don’t have to answer. She knows already. You pick up a cookie instead, and the first bite hits you like a hug—sweet, buttery, and warm in a way that sticks to more than just your ribs. It’s the kind of comfort you didn’t realize you needed until it’s right in front of you.

Donna doesn’t speak again until your second bite. Then she gives your hand a gentle pat, her eyes soft behind the steam rising from her own coffee.

“You’re doing good, sweetheart. You know that, right?”

You nod, not trusting yourself to speak just yet. But she smiles, satisfied.

Outside, Mark is still trying to debate the legitimacy of Bailey’s throw when suddenly she freezes mid-laugh. Her ears perk. Her nose twitches. Her tail gives a sharp wag.

Then— She drops the ball.

“He’s home.”

Without another word, Bailey bolts toward the house, her feet thudding softly across the grass. You barely have time to stand before the screen door bangs open and she barrels into the kitchen like a golden blur of love and excitement.

“There you are!” she cries, throwing her arms around you and nuzzling her face into your chest, tail wagging so fast it’s practically humming.

You manage to catch her but her excitement is palpable. She loves her hubby!

“I missed you.” She says it like it’s been a month instead of a few hours. “You smell like home.”

She snuggles closer, arms wrapped tight around your waist, tail still swaying happily against your legs. She even starts purring as she nuzzles her head under your neck...*