Chapter 8 - The Sunlit Kitchen
Our new kitchen featured gleaming white quartz countertops, large windows overlooking a quiet, tree-lined street, and a small wooden dining table in the corner.
On our first official Saturday morning in the new home, the smell of pancakes filled the air.
Zara sat at the kitchen table, coloring a brand-new book of blue foxes, humming a cheerful tune to herself. The morning sunlight streamed through the window, catching the golden highlights in her hair.
I poured two glasses of fresh orange juice and set one down across from her.
“How’s the new art studio coming along, boss?” I asked, smiling.
“It’s the best studio in the whole world,” she declared, looking up with a radiant grin that reached all the way to her eyes. “And nobody is ever allowed to leave a mean note on this table.”
May you like
“Nobody,” I promised, sliding into the chair opposite her and clinking my glass against hers.
My phone buzzed once on the counter—a routine work notification from the hospital. I ignored it. For the first time in my life, my world was quiet, safe, and entirely our own.
