The morning began quietly, almost deceptively so. The sunlight spilled into the apartment, warm and soft, carrying the faint aroma of toast and fresh coffee. Noah sat at the table, coloring intently, completely absorbed in his own little world.
Ethan leaned against the counter, sipping his coffee and watching him. There was pride in the small details—the way Noah held the crayon, the careful attention to color, the way he occasionally paused to look at the lines he had drawn. Each of these small acts of care was proof of progress, proof of stability.
“She’s coming today,” Ethan said softly, more to himself than to Noah.
Noah glanced up. “I know. Daddy… do you think she’ll be okay?”
Ethan smiled faintly. “I think she will. Just like we will.”
The walk to school was calm, almost serene.
