Mornings had a rhythm at Helen’s house: kettle hum, toast crackle, cinnamon oatmeal, napkins folded into neat little triangles that made the kids laugh. At eight sharp, a car door, little feet, voices tumbling in like sunshine.
Emma would barrel through first, backpack bouncing. Jake followed, clutching the stuffed elephant that had survived every wash. “Nana!”—two hugs, two coats hung, two lunchboxes open like promises.
Today there was only the soft tick of the kitchen clock and the smell of cooling toast. The napkins looked too bright without small hands reaching for them.
