The morning light cut across the kitchen in thin, pale strips, highlighting the dust motes floating lazily in the air. It should’ve felt peaceful, but every sound was sharp, the clink of plates, the hum of the coffee machine, the squeak of Nova’s chair legs against the tile as she wiggled in her seat.
We looked like a family and we sounded like one too. Noah was murmuring about syrup while Nova was chattering about her dream where her stuffed rabbit could fly but under the surface, there was a crack running right down the center of us.
I felt Noah’s eyes on me when I reached for the butter knife. Not accusing one but a heavy and searching one. I forced a smile, spreading jam onto Nova’s waffle. My hands shook, just enough to smear the edge.
“Can I cut it myself?” Nova asked, reaching fo
