Page 160 of When the Storm Breaks
It’s never smelled like anyone else’s. Only here. Only home.
It took me an embarrassing amount of time to realize my mom adds honey—just a touch of sweetness mixed into the butter.
I used to make it when I missed her.
Stepping into the kitchen, I find her at the stove, absently pushing eggs around in a pan. I know they’ll be cooked perfectly—like always.
My dad stands beside her at the counter, scrolling through his phone, tilting the screen toward her as they laugh at something together. A photo. A video. A moment.
It’s so simple. So easy.
They’re justhappy.
It’s been this way for as long as I can remember—their quiet morning ritual, their steady kind of contentment.
For a second, it feels like nothing’s changed. Like I’m back in high school, before everything got hard. Before life got complicated.
Like I haven’t lost anything at all.
And maybe that’s the hardest part.
It feels too normal. Too much like I never left.
After a few moments of standing in the doorway, watching them move in their familiar rhythm, I finally step into the kitchen, making myself known.
“Good morning, sweetheart,” my mom says, her voice warm—laced with sugar and optimism.
I’ve always envied that about her. How easily she sounds so light, no matter what the day brings.
As I pass by, my dad reaches out and knuckles my hair—his greeting just as casual.
“Morning, Cal.”
I watch as my mom moves through the kitchen with the ease born of years of repetition. She grabs a mug and pours me a cup of coffee, then adds a splash of cold water—just enough to cool it, exactly how I like it.
She sets it in front of me like it’s nothing, just muscle memory.
The weight of that small, unspoken gesture presses tightly in my chest.
She remembers.
From the corner of my eye, I catch my dad watching. His gaze flicks between me and the coffee, and I brace myself before he even speaks.
“Ready to join society today?” he smirks. I know it’s meant as teasing—that he doesn’t truly mean it.
But it still lands harder than it should.
I’m trying. I promise, I’m trying.
He doesn’t press though.
They go back to their articles, their videos, their photos.
They just exist—happy. Living.
I sit at the kitchen table, wrapping my hands around the warm mug, willing the heat to sink into my bones.
Within minutes, a plate of perfectly cooked eggs slides across the table toward me.
