“You want to go back to sleep?” I asked softly.
She nodded.
“Then sleep, Sloane. I’ll stay quiet.”
Sloane closed her eyes again. The shadows beneath them told me she was exhausted, running on little rest. And the way she pinched her eyes shut, as if she had to fight for sleep, told me it didn’t come easily anymore.
I stretched my arm over the pillow above Harper’s head, letting my hand rest gently beside hers. Then I took Sloane’s hand and placed it softly on top of mine. She shifted her hand, curling her fingers around my wrist instead—a soft, subtle resistance.
And little by little, the tightness in her face began to soften.
Minutes later, she drifted off.
When Harper woke up, Sloane was still asleep. My daughter climbed onto me with a burst of excitement, yelling, “Daddy!”
Sloane didn’t even stir from all the noise, which told me just how exhausted she was. Harper immediately demanded breakfast, so I scooped her up and carried her downstairs to the kitchen.
I made her scrambled eggs—she always said mine were the best—and toasted two slices of bread, spreading her favorite strawberry jam across both.
Then we sat side by side at our small dining table, eating breakfast together. Harper’s eyes sparkled as she talked nonstop about a school project she was really excited about.
“It’s about flowers, Daddy! We have to find different kinds of flowers outside and draw them,” she said, her little hands moving excitedly. “I want to find a big yellow one because it’s so bright and happy!”
“Did you find it?” I asked, smiling from ear to ear, watching her energy spill over the table.
“Yes!” Harper bounced up and down in her seat, her eyes wide with excitement. “Miss Tina helped me find it!”
“Where is it? Can I see it?” I asked.
“It’s still at school. I’ll bring it home later, okay?” she said, still beaming.
I kissed her cheek, unable to resist. “Okay, I can’t wait, sweetie!”
“Yeah!” She grinned.
We finished breakfast, and Harper climbed onto her little stool to help me rinse the plates before we loaded them into the dishwasher. Then we moved to the living room, where she keptchattering away about her school. She loved it there, and hearing that filled me with a tender kind of joy.
Sloane finally made her way down the stairs just as noon settled in. Harper had already taken her shower, and we were both busy in the kitchen preparing lunch.
She approached her daughter slowly and wrapped her arms around her in a gentle, motherly embrace. With a soft sigh, she whispered, “Hey, baby.”
“Hey, Mommy,” Harper replied, her voice warm and sweet.
“Who has my heart, baby?” Sloane murmured into her ear, a question she asked Harper every day—sometimes several times a day.
“I do,” Harper answered softly.
Sloane smiled contentedly, needing to hear those words. And Harper knew exactly how much her mother needed her to say them.
“We’re making spaghetti carbonara,” I told Sloane. She nodded in reply.
“Need my help?” she asked.
“Nope, we’re good.” I glanced at Harper. “Right, sweetie?”
“Yep,” she said with a big grin.
“Alright, I’m going to take a shower,” Sloane said, turning toward the stairs.
