The next few days we spent with Mike were close to magical. The house was filled with laughter and all the warmth we needed.
While I got busy with my laptop, fingers hovering over the keyboard, Mike was already at the stove, a flour‑dusty apron tied around his waist. He’d hum an old tune as he whisked together a batter of oats, mashed banana, and a splash of honey—pancakes, it seemed that was all he loved preparing. He’d grin, flipping them with a flick that sent a tiny cloud of steam dancing in the sunbeam.
Annie, sitting on a high stool, watched with her happy eyes, her little hands clutching a bright‑colored spoon she loved tasting with.
By midday, the living room transformed into a board‑game arena. The coffee table was full of cardboard continents, plastic armies, scramble and a
