Freya
I watched as Isabella pouted on her bed, her small face a mixture of resignation and defiance. This was our morning ritual now - a battle of wills over the simplest things like getting ready for school.
"I know," she muttered sullenly, making no move to actually get up.
After a moment of lying there, she looked at me with those eyes - so like her father's - and said, "Mom, you help me squeeze toothpaste."
"Hmm," I agreed, swallowing down the familiar ache. Once, I would have reminded her she was old enough to do it herself, but these days I took whatever scraps of connection I could get.
I went into the bathroom and prepared her toothbrush. Through the open door, I saw Isabella grab her phone, quickly typing something with a small smile on her face. That smile - the
