ELIJAH'S POV
I dreamed of Saturday mornings. Imogen in our kitchen wearing my old college t-shirt, her hair twisted up in one of those messy buns she did without thinking about it. Joseph sat at the breakfast table, seven years old and covered in syrup, talking a mile a minute about his soccer game later that day. The morning light came through the windows and made everything golden.
"Dad, you're not listening," Joseph said, and I realized he was right. I had been watching Imogen flip pancakes at the stove, the way she moved around our kitchen like she belonged there. Like this was really our life.
"Sorry, buddy. Tell me again about the game."
"Coach says I might get to play forward today. Mom said she'd bring orange slices for the whole team." He looked over at Imogen with pure adoration. "And she promised we could get ice cream after if I try my best."
I reached over and ruffled his dark hair. He had my eyes but Imogen's stubborn chin. "What flavor are you thinking?"
