Morning light does not ask for permission.
It spills across the kitchen table exactly as it did yesterday.
Ignoring the thick white envelope that sits near the salt shaker.
Ignoring the laptop that holds the digital copy of the book.
Ignoring the reviews that are popping up online.
I stand at the counter.
Grinding coffee beans.
The sound is loud in the quiet house.
Sharp.
Mechanical.
Real.
Marcus is at the table.
He is not reading the reviews.
He is watching Eleanor try to tie her shoelaces.
She struggles.
The loops slip.
Her brow furrows.
Frustration builds.
Marcus does not reach out.
He does not tie them for her.
He waits.
She tries again.
Twists the lace.
Pulls.
A knot forms.
Loose.
But a knot.
She looks up.
Proud.
Breathless.
Done.
He nods.
Done.
He doe
