Golda’s still asleep next to me, face buried in the pillow, copper hair spread everywhere like she’s been wrestling with it all night. She looks younger like this, without the constant worry lines around her eyes. The morning light coming through her bedroom curtains catches the few freckles across her nose that I’m just starting to notice.
I check my phone—7:30. Morning skate at 10, which gives me enough time to deal with whatever kitchen disaster is happening below and maybe grab coffee with her before I have to head home to change.
“Stay here,” I whisper, though she doesn’t stir. “I’ll handle the chaos.”
Downstairs, I find Blythe standing on a kitchen chair, poking at the smoking toaster with a butter knife while Tyson watches from what he clearly considers a safe distance across the room.
“Whoa, whoa.” I cross the kitchen fast, grabbing the knife away from her. “Rule one of kitchen fires—no metal objects near electrical appliances.”
“It’s not on fire,” she protests with the indignation of someone whose scientific methods have been frequently questioned. “It’s just... really angry.”
“What exactly did you put in there?”
“A waffle. With peanut butter already on it. And maybe some honey. And possibly a few chocolate chips.”
“Jesus Christ.” I unplug the toaster, which is definitely smoking now and making sounds no kitchen appliance should make. “Why would you do that?”
“It seemed more efficient! Like a breakfast sandwich, but toasted!”
Tyson shakes his head with the weary patience of someone who’s witnessed this kind of logic before. “She killed three toasters last year.”
“Impressive,” I admit, using tongs to extract what used to be breakfast from the smoking appliance. The remains look like something archaeologists might find in Pompeii. “New record?”
“She got a waffle maker last month,” Tyson continues. “It lasted two days.”
“That wasn’t my fault!” Blythe climbs down from her chair. “The instructions were unclear about everything!”
I examine the charred waffle, trying not to laugh. “Okay, new rule. No more experimental cooking without adult supervision.”
“But how will I perfect my culinary innovations?”
“Maybe start with things that don’t require electricity?”
By the time Golda appears in the kitchen—hair pulled back in a messy bun, wearing an oversized t-shirt that probably belonged to someone else once upon a time—I’ve got both kids fed, the toaster situation contained, and coffee brewing.
She takes one look at the charred remains in the sink and sighs. “Let me guess. Another casualty in Blythe’s war against conventional breakfast preparation?”
“Your daughter has a real talent for small appliance destruction.”
“It’s a gift,” Blythe says proudly through a mouthful of backup cereal.
“It’s expensive,” Golda corrects, accepting the coffee mug I hand her with a grateful smile. “You don’t have to clean up after us, you know. You’re a guest here.”
“I don’t mind.” And I don’t. The whole morning routine thing—making coffee, dealing with breakfast disasters, listening to Blythe’s elaborate theories about proper toaster usage—it’s weird how normal it feels. “Besides, I think I’m past guest status at this point.”
Something flickers in her expression at that, but before I can figure out what it means, Tyson looks up from his cereal.
“Coach Dex, are you going to practice today?”
“Yeah, buddy. Morning skate at ten. Need to head home and change first.”
“Will you come back after?” The question comes out casual, but there’s something underneath it—a kid who’s had enough upheaval wanting to know what he can count on.
“If that’s okay with your mom.” I glance at Golda, who nods. “Yeah, I’ll come back. Maybe bring dinner so nobody has to cook.”
His smile is small but genuine. “Good. I wanted to ask you about that goal you scored against Vancouver. The one where you went around the defenseman.”
“Which one? I went around a lot of defensemen that game.”
