Something in you notices the tightening before it becomes movement.

The clock reads 7:43. There’s still time, but not a lot.

You stand at the edge of the table for a moment.

Not long. Just long enough to feel your feet on the floor.

“Can you put on your other sock while I finish up the lunch?” you say.

Your voice has more room in it than it did a moment ago.

Your child pulls the sock on. It takes a little while.

You finish the lunch without checking the clock again.

The kitchen moves in sequence. One surface at a time.

The backpack is zipped while your child carries the bowl to the sink on their own. You notice that they do it without being asked.

You leave at 8:03.

There’s a brief moment at the door where neither of you is rushing.

Your child says something about their day — something small. You catch it.