Photo 6 of 46
Saturday mornings had settled into a rhythm over the years. By seven-thirty, Jack was downstairs with coffee. A few minutes later, Eli appeared in football shorts and one sock, already looking mildly offended by the concept of being awake.Eli opened the fridge, stared into it for a moment, then sat down when Jack pushed a plate of toast toward him.
There was comfort in this. In the repetition. In the ordinary friction of shared life. After enough years of surviving, this counted as peace. Jack had a hardware errand to run. Eli had football with friends at the park. Not a formal match, just the usual weekend chaos involving one ball, improvised goalposts, and too much shouting.
