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Sophie she sat at the island on a stool, watching as I got things out to make breakfast.

“What’s that?” She asked, pointing at the bag of bread.

“Brioche bread.”

“Like toast?”

“Yes, but it’s also what I’m going to make your French toast out of,” I said, grabbing a couple of other items from the cupboard.

“And that?” She questioned, pointing at a bottle.

“Maple syrup. The real deal, right from Canada.”

“Oh, it looks different from the bottle Dad buys. What about that?” She asked, holding up a small, clear bag.

“That is a bunch of cinnamon sticks. Haven’t you ever seen a cinnamon stick?” I questioned.

She shook her head. I pulled one out of the bag and held it up under her nose.

“It smells like the Pistachio Sweet Shop,” she said, her eyes widening. “Like the cinnamon rolls!”

“Yes! Do you like cinnamon rolls?”

“Mommy used to love them…” she stopped and wiped her eyes with her hands. She didn’t say another word; instead, she picked up the cinnamon stick and turned it over in her hands. “It looks like tree bark.”

“It is tree bark. Well, technically.”

“Cool.”

While Sophie turned the stick over and over in her hand, I pulled out the cast-iron skillet and began heating it up.

Soon the kitchen was filled with the smell of butter and cinnamon and bacon. Sophie sat on her stool telling me all about the differences between a carnivore and a herbivore’s teeth while I cooked. It was one of the most interesting conversations I’d had lately.

She was about to move on to her next point when I heard footsteps on the stairs. Everett walked into the kitchen, dressed in another perfectly tailored suit. Today it was navy-colored, and he’d paired it with a white shirt, open at the collar with no tie. He stopped in the doorway and looked at the stove. Then, at the counter, covered in cutting boards and fruit. His eyes moved to Sophie, who sat on the stool kicking her feet as she held the cinnamon stick up to her nose like a mustache. Then he looked over at the set table, where I’d already set a place for him.

“Good morning,” I said.

He ignored me as if I weren’t even there and walked over to the coffeemaker, quickly pouring himself a cup before he moved to the table and sat down, picking up the newspaper.

“Morning, Daddy,” Sophie said.

“Morning, Soph.”

I walked over and placed a plate with three slices of French toast, a pile of bacon, and strawberries fanned out on the side in front of him. He looked down at it as if it were a live animal.

“Miss. Wilde, you don’t have to cook for me.” He grumbled. “I am fully capable of making my own meals, and I don’t eat breakfast.”

“I know, but since I’m at it anyway, I figured you might be hungry. Plus, as I explained to Sophie, you start the day out better with food in your stomach, so, set a good example and eat your breakfast, would you?”

His eyes lifted from the plate to my face. I wanted to shake him and wipe the look off his face, but I saw his jaw twitch and instead of arguing, he picked up his fork and stabbed a strawberry.

I turned back to the stove and pressed play on my phone.

“Monster Mash” filled the kitchen, and Sophie giggled as I danced around.

I didn’t look at him as I plated breakfast for Sophie. I really didn’t need to because the temperature shifted in the room as his eyes drilled into the back of my head. I flipped a piece of French toast onto her plate and hummed along to the music, pretending all was right with the world.

I placed the plate down in front of Sophie and noticed her feet stopped kicking as she looked at me and then over to her father. The newspaper rustled, and a fork scraped against a plate.