008

THE next morning crept in softly, sunlight filtering through the blinds of the suburban house. Birds chattered outside, their songs piercing the quiet stillness of dawn. For once, Adrian was not in bed, nor hunched over his phone checking emails. He was in the kitchen, sleeves rolled up, an apron tied neatly around his waist. The apron was white with bold, faded-blue letters across it: “Best Daddy in the World.” Amelia had bought it for him years ago as a Father’s Day gift, and though he rarely wore it, today felt like the right time.

The smell of eggs sizzling on the pan, butter melting over toast, and bacon crisping in the oven filled the kitchen. Adrian moved with unusual care, flipping pancakes onto a plate, drizzling syrup in small, careful circles. He wanted it to look perfect. He wanted this morning to be different, a balm to soothe over last night’s silence and the cold wall Amelia had began building against him, again.

At the clatter of a bedroom door upstairs, Adrian paused,