It happens on a Wednesday.
Nothing explodes.
Nothing fractures.
No one calls.
No one threatens.
No letters arrive.
No ghosts resurface.
It’s just a Wednesday.
And for the first time in years, I don’t instinctively check what might be wrong with that.
Eleanor is two now.
Fully mobile.
Fully opinionated.
Currently attempting to negotiate with gravity by climbing onto the dining chair without assistance.
Marcus watches her like he’s evaluating a business risk.
“She’s calculating,” he murmurs.
“She’s stubborn,” I correct.
“She’s both.”
Eleanor falls backward into his arms and laughs.
Not because it was funny.
Because she trusts he’ll catch her.
That’s the miracle.
Not that she climbs.
Not that she falls.
But that she doesn’t flinch before she does either.
Zara calls in
