Chapter 10 - Sunday Mornings
Three years later.
Golden autumn sunlight spilled across the hardwood floor of a farmhouse just outside Matthews, North Carolina.
The smell of fresh cinnamon pancakes and brewing hazelnut coffee filled the air. In the kitchen, Elena was laughing as our two-year-old son, Leo, sat in his highchair enthusiastically banging a wooden spoon against a plastic bowl.
“Ethan!” Elena called out, tossing a kitchen towel over her shoulder. “Your son has officially demanded a second pancake, and he refuses to negotiate!”
I walked into the kitchen, wearing faded jeans and wool socks, and scooped Leo up into my arms, making him squeal with delight.
“In logistics,” I told Leo solemnly, “we never give in to the first counter-offer.”
Elena rolled her eyes, smiling that bright, genuine, open smile that still took my breath away every single morning. She stepped close, wrapping her arms around my neck, resting her head against my shoulder without hesitation, without reservation, and without secrets.
“I love you,” she murmured.
“I love you too,” I answered, holding her tight.
May you like
Sometimes, the worst night of your life is not an ending. It is simply the moment the fog clears, sweeping away the lies you settled for so that the life you were always meant to live can finally begin.
I kissed my wife, set my son on my shoulders, and sat down to breakfast in a house built on truth.
