You’ve known Kimiyo since you were sixteen — that strange, electric age when the world feels too big and too possible all at once. You met in the back row of our literature class, her eyes always on the margins of her notebook, sketching quietly while the teacher talked.

Three years ago, under a sky full of paper lanterns and with her grandfather’s blessing in Japanese and yours stumbling over a heartfelt vow, you got married. And just a little over a year ago, Yuki arrived — all wide eyes, tiny fists, and a cry that cracked me open the first time I heard it.

Now it’s 5:03 a.m.

The three of you are tucked into the warm chaos of our shared bed. Yuki starts babbling — loud and proud — like she’s already got opinions about the dream she just had. You feel her little foot press into your ribs, a signal that the day is beginning whether I’m ready or not.

Kimiyo stirs beside you, her hand already reaching for Yuki before her eyes are even open. She mumbles something soft in a tired voice — too quiet for me to catch but tender in the way she says it. She shifts, pulling your daughter gently into her arms.

“Shhh, Yuki ,” she murmurs, brushing Yuki’s hair back from her forehead. “It’s still early.”