Morning light
The alarm went off at six-thirty. I hit snooze. Twice. By the third buzz, I gave up pretending I could sleep any longer.
The apartment was quiet. Too quiet. Leo and Ella were still asleep, curled up under their blankets, little breaths soft and steady. I watched them for a moment, thinking how ridiculously lucky I was and how terrifying it was to be responsible for two tiny humans who relied on me for everything.
I swung my legs off the bed and padded to the kitchen, careful not to stub my toes on the coffee table. The air was cold against my bare feet, and I shivered. Coffee first, always coffee. I filled the kettle and leaned against the counter, taking a slow sip from my mug. It burned my throat just enough to remind me that life was happening whether I liked it or not.
Breakfast was a balancing act. Ella liked oatmeal, Leo liked eggs, and neither of them liked waiting. I put on a pot of eggs and chopped fruit, trying to time it so everyone could eat at the same time without a meltdown. Leo groaned from under his blanket when I finally went to wake them. “Five more minutes!” he mumbled, eyes half closed.
Ella sat up already, rubbing her eyes. “I’m awake, Mommy.” She gave me a tiny smile, and I felt my chest tighten in a way that made me almost laugh. These little moments before chaos, before homework and deadlines were all mine.
By seven, breakfast was ready. Leo insisted on chocolate chips in his eggs, and I gave in. Ella poured her own honey over her oatmeal, trying to be grown-up and failing miserably. I stirred in a little extra sugar when she wasn’t looking. They argued over who got the biggest slice of fruit. I rolled my eyes, secretly loving the noise, the little messes, the laughter spilling between the complaints.
Clothes, socks, shoes somehow five-year-olds always managed to find a way to make every morning feel like a marathon. Jackets zipped up wrong, hair sticking up in strange angles, backpack straps twisted into knots. I helped, fixed, guided, but I didn’t rush. I had learned the importance of patience. And coffee.
By eight thirty, we were waiting for the school bus. I held Ella’s hand, brushed Leo’s hair back from his forehead, and tried to ignore the ache in my chest as I watched them climb aboard, waving furiously.
“Be good!” I shouted. “Listen to the teacher!”
They waved like tiny flags and disappeared around the corner. I lingered a moment, then turned back to the apartment. Quiet. Too quiet. I poured myself another cup of coffee and let my shoulders slump.
The studio corner of the living room waited for me ,canvases stacked, brushes in jars, paints smeared across the table. I settled into my chair and looked at the blank canvas in front of me. It was intimidating, but also familiar. Painting was my escape, my way of making sense of the world when words weren’t enough.
I picked up a brush and swirled it into the blue paint, dragging it across the canvas. The strokes were uneven at first, clumsy, but eventually they began to form something that felt like order. Maybe that’s what life was messy, chaotic, then somehow slowly forming into something that made sense.
Halfway through the morning, I paused to take a break and sip my coffee, glancing out the window at the street below. Everything was so ordinary cars passing, people walking dogs, the mail truck rattling down the road. Ordinary, predictable. Safe. I liked that. I needed that.
But even in the quiet, my thoughts slipped. I thought about him. Nathaniel. My college sweetheart, the man who had been my first love and my first heartbreak. I pushed the thought away. He wasn’t part of my life anymore, not really. Not with the twins depending on me, not with the life I had carved out for myself, one messy, beautiful brushstroke at a time.
Sometimes I remembered the early days with him laughing over coffee in tiny dorm rooms, long walks in the park, holding hands until my fingers ached. And then everything had broken so suddenly. The miscarriage, the betrayal, the nights I cried alone while the apartment slept. I had buried all of it to survive.
The afternoon passed in the slow, familiar rhythm of paint drying, brushes rinsing, water spilling on the table. I was just starting a new piece a landscape with muted blues and golds when a knock at the door pulled me out of my thoughts.
“Delivery for Emily Dawson,” a man called. I signed for a small package and closed the door. Inside was a new set of paints I had ordered online a small indulgence, a little reminder that I still existed outside of their tiny worlds.
By four thirty, I heard the distant rumble of the school bus. I grabbed my coat and waited at the curb, feeling the familiar flutter of nerves ,its always been like this anytime they are away from me .would they remember to stay in line, would Leo argue about something, would Ella hold my hand tightly like she always did?
They climbed off, arguing about who had the better day. Leo nearly tripped over his own feet, and Ella reached for my hand. I scooped them up one by one, brushing hair from their faces and listening to their excited chatter.
“Mommy, we made the tallest tower in class!” Leo said, grinning from ear to ear.
Ella nodded. “And I painted a rainbow!”
I smiled, letting myself laugh. The apartment was theirs again now full of noise, life, and sticky little fingers. I poured tea for myself, finally sitting down, letting the warmth fill the spaces my coffee hadn’t.
I didn’t let my thoughts wander too far, but sometimes, even with the twins beside me, Nathaniel’s memory slipped in like a shadow. He wasn’t part of this life. Not yet. But I knew, somewhere, he might still exist, still be thinking of me, still searching.or maybe not.
I pushed the thought away again. I had work to do. Paintings to finish. Children to raise. Life to live.
And for now, that was enough.it had to be
