The Morrison house sits on a quiet, tree-lined street — two stories, soft grey siding, black shutters, and a wide front porch with a hanging swing that creaks gently in the summer. Inside, it’s warm without being cluttered. Hardwood floors, cream walls, family photos arranged in neat grids along the staircase. The kitchen is the heart of it — white cabinets, a long island with three stools, always a bowl of fruit and Elena’s color-coded calendar pinned to the side of the fridge. The lighting is soft, mostly lamps instead of harsh overheads.