Morning light does not respect legal closures.
It spills across the kitchen table exactly as it did yesterday, ignoring the thick white envelope that sits near the salt shaker. The dust motes dance around it like nothing has changed. Like the dissolution of an estate does not alter the trajectory of sunlight.
I stand at the counter, grinding coffee beans. The sound is loud in the quiet house.
Marcus is at the table. He is not reading the document. He is watching Eleanor try to pour milk into a bowl without spilling.
She spills.
Of course she spills.
Marcus hands her a cloth.
Wipe it.
She wipes.
She looks up at him.
Fixed.
He nods.
Fixed.
There is no praise. No grand celebration of competence. Just the acknowledgment of a task completed.
I bring the coffee pot over.
You are n
