For a moment, I thought I was dreaming. Then I heard the quiet clatter of plates.
I walked into the kitchen to find Liam at the stove, humming under his breath as he flipped pancakes. Noah sat at the table, carefully peeling oranges into perfect spirals.
I leaned against the doorway, taking it all in.
These were my boys. The babies whose heartbeats I had seen on a grainy ultrasound screen. The teenagers who had questioned me, doubted me, and then stood up for me in a room full of strangers.
I crossed the room, wrapped an arm around each of them, and held on for just a moment longer than usual.
“Thank you,” I said. “For breakfast. For everything.”
We sat down together, the three of us, and passed the syrup. There were college applications still ahead, part-time jobs, and a future that none of us could fully see yet.
But in that small kitchen, with a plate of pancakes between us, I knew one thing for sure.
We were a family. Not the kind you see on greeting cards or campaign posters. A real one. Messy, complicated, imperfect, and strong.
And no one was going to take that away from us again.
