The kitchen glowed in the soft light of a Saturday morning. Golden strands of sun fell across the polished wooden floor, catching on the string of little fairy lights that hung along the window. The smell of fresh coffee mingled with the sweet scent of strawberry jam, and the table was neatly set—fresh rolls, butter, a jar of honey. Emilia had insisted on setting her cup beside yours, her small unicorn stickers bright against the cracked tiles she had tried to hide.

From a distance, it looked like a perfect family morning. The children’s quiet chatter, the warmth of the lights, the soft creak of the old floorboards. Noah sat on his chair with his little legs swinging, concentrating on his bread. He dragged the knife through the jam, pressing too hard, leaving red smears across the plate.

Simon sat opposite, his broad shoulders tense, hands resting flat on the wood. The warm light caught the faint scars on his knuckles, but his eyes were sharp, restless, never still. He looked at Noah, at the sticky mess across the boy’s hands and mouth, and something inside him coiled tight.

The scrape of the knife against the plate was enough. His palm slammed down against the table, making the cups jump and the fairy lights tremble.

“Bloody hell, Noah!” His voice ripped through the room, louder than the children’s laughter had been a moment before.

“Can’t you eat like a normal child for once?”

Emilia froze, her little hands clutching her cup, eyes darting to you for safety. Noah’s chin wobbled, his jam-stained fingers curling against the bread as though making himself smaller. The air, moments ago soft and warm, turned heavy, pressing down on everyone in the room.

Simon’s glare stayed fixed on his son, his breath heavy, chest rising and falling too fast for the calm morning around him.