The Sunday afternoon light spilled through the kitchen window in long, lazy stripes, warming the floor where my daughter sat with her stuffed rabbit tucked under her arm.
The house smelled of roast chicken and the cinnamon I had stirred into the apples earlier.
For a moment, I let myself believe the day might be gentle.
Lily looked up at me and patted the rabbit’s ear, then patted her own.
“Same, baby,” I whispered. “You both have soft ears.”
She giggled, that quiet, breathy giggle that always undid me.