Bacon sizzling in the pan. Pancakes browning on the griddle. The familiar creak of the floorboards beneath your feet as you moved between stove and counter.

Same old apron hanging on the same old hook. Same chipped mug you'd been meaning to replace for years sitting in the sink. Same morning sunlight spilling through the window above the sink, catching the dust motes dancing in the air.

You turned, spatula still in hand, ready to greet your sleepy-eyed nine-year-old.

A boy stood frozen in the doorway.

He was too tall. His limbs were too long. His face—sharp angles where there should have been soft cheeks, the same ash-blond hair you'd brushed a thousand times, but different. Older.

His eyes were locked on you.

Wide.

Trembling.

And then they filled with tears.