I glance at her again, still waiting for the usual Morgan interrogation.
Why are you still here? Did you sleep on the couch?
Instead, she’s just shuffling cards, watching my pancake technique like I’m her favorite morning TV show. No questions. No commentary on my wrinkled shirt.
I flip the pancake and nod. "Sure. But only if you promise not to cheat."
"I don't cheat!" She shuffles the deck with more skill than the last time we played cards. "Okay, pick a card. Any card. Don't show me."
I do as she asks, selecting the three of hearts.
She goes through an elaborate series of cuts and flourishes, her little tongue poking out in concentration. I keep flipping pancakes, watching Morgan the whole time, when Zoey appears in the doorway.
She's wearing the Snow Leopards hoodies I haven't been able to find for a week over a pair of soft sleep shorts, which she did absolutelynotsleep in. Her hair is a gorgeous disaster, her eyes still soft with sleep, and she’s covering the biggest yawn I've ever seen.
"Morning, sleepyhead," I say, flipping a pancake and smiling across the room.
"Morning, Mama," Morgan chirps, not even looking up. "Buddy's making pancakes. But he needed butter coaching."
Zoey's still blinking. "You're making pancakes."
"Obviously. Blueberry for you." I nod at the stack. "Chocolate chip for the miniature Gordon Ramsey over there."
Zoey shuffles to the coffee machine, brushing her hand across my lower back as she passes. Morgan is now attempting to make my chosen card 'magically' appear from behind my ear, which involves a lot of dramatic waving and one card accidentally fluttering into the batter bowl.
"Oops." She fishes it out, leaving a chocolatey smear on the counter. "Minor technical difficulty."
Zoey leans back and sips her coffee, and her expression is pure joy, her lips curved in a soft, contented smile as she watches her daughter effortlessly commandeer my morning.
And I get it.
This feels like afamily.
The three of us, in a sun-drenched kitchen on a Sunday morning, batter everywhere, cards on the floor, the TV playing cartoons that no one is watching in the background.
It feels so real I just want to snap a photo and send it to my parents.
This is what parenting should look like.
"Time for pancakes," Morgan announces, sliding off her stool and apparently completely abandoning her card trick.
“So, Morgs,” I ask, loading blueberry pancake onto Zoey’s plate. “What was the best part of last night? The brownies? The tarts?”
Morgan, mouth full of chocolate chip pancake already, holds up a syrup-dripping finger. “Did youseeCade Jensen with the chocolate fountain? He kept trying to get a strawberry on the stick and it kept falling in. He did it, like,six times. Aunt Paige was filming the whole thing and laughing so hard she almost dropped her phone in the chocolate.”
Zoey leans against the counter beside me, so close I could kiss her. “I heard he ended up with chocolate on his suit.”
“It waseverywhere,” Morgan corrects, eyes wide. “And then he tried to blame the stick, but we all saw. It was a skill issue.”
I laugh, handing Zoey her coffee. “Sounds like Jensen needs some hand-eye coordination drills. I’ll mention it to Coach.”
We eat like that, the three of us crowded around the island, Zoey and I standing, Morgan sitting across from us.
Zoey moans around a bite of blueberry pancake, and the sound takes me all the way back to this morning. Morgan tells us about how she convinced Isla that the cardamom twists were 'magic cinnamon' and that eating one would make you better at math.
I listen, I laugh, I pour more syrup.
And the whole time, this warm, terrifying feeling spreads through my chest.
