The morning sun streamed gently through the kitchen window, casting a golden glow across the quiet home that now bore the weight of peace, hard-earned and cherished. Outside, birds chirped softly, as if singing a lullaby to a house that had seen too much thunder and rain.
Inside, the warmth wasn’t just from the sunlight, it was from life. A new, simpler life. One built from the ashes of pain, stitched together with hope, and sealed with the laughter of a child.
Crystal stood in the kitchen, a light hum escaping her lips as she flipped the last pancake onto the plate. Her hair was tied up in a loose bun, a few strands falling over her forehead. Her eyes, once hollow with sorrow, now carried a light that had returned slowly over the months, like spring returning after a brutal winter.
In the corner of the kitchen sat a high chair, and in it, bouncing with tiny feet slapping the footrest, was little Zoey.
Two years old now.
Bright-eyed. Sharp. Laughing.
And the carbon copy of Christ
