our lives.
When I returned to the kitchen, Milo had climbed onto a chair. Lena was pouring cereal. Milk splashed onto the table. Milo laughed too loudly.
For a second, both children froze.
Old fear entered the room out of habit.
I picked up a towel, wiped the spill, and said, “That was a spectacular amount of milk.”
Milo giggled again, smaller this time.
Lena watched my face.
I smiled.
“Try again,” I said.
So she poured the milk. Milo made engine noises with his spoon. The radiator clanged. Someone in the apartment below played music off-key. The refrigerator hummed beneath a growing wall of drawings.
It was not quiet.
It was not polished.
It was not Grant’s version of peace.
It was breakfast. It was noise. It was a little boy asking for more cereal and a little girl taping sunlight to the wall. It was the sound of a home that had stopped apologizing for being alive.
