Gabriel adjusted his helmet, already astride his bike. Nicole planted herself on the top step of the porch, arms folded but smile soft. "I know you'd rather run around with your friends," she said, "but make sure Daniel gets to school and home in one piece, okay?"
Gabriel rolled one shoulder, still looking down the street instead of at his mother. "I'll get him there," he muttered. "Not gonna babysit him all day."
"Didn't ask you to." She tapped the porch rail. "Just keep an eye out. That's all."
He lifted his chin—a shrug disguised as agreement—then shoved off. Daniel, smaller helmet tilted a little crooked over his afro, pedaled after him. Halfway down the drive he stuck out one arm and waggled his fingers at their mom. Nicole waved back, kept waving until the boys disappeared around the corner and the clatter of bike chains faded.
The sudden hush felt almost too heavy for the front yard. A lawn-mower hummed a few houses over; somewhere farther down the block a dog barked, high and frantic, then stopped. Otherwise—nothing. Nicole hugged her own elbows for a second. Robert should've been out there with me, she thought, not for the first time. She pictured her husband standing beside her, maybe sipping coffee while teasing Gabriel about those "snake-ass braids," maybe showing Daniel how to tighten a loose bike chain. But Robert was still upstairs, dead to the world after another night of God-knows-what research, and the dawn routine was once again on her shoulders alone.
She blew out a breath, forced her shoulders to drop, and headed inside.
Nicole headed back into the kitchen and rinsed last night's mug, filled it with fresh coffee, and leaned against the counter. Steam curled up, fogging her glasses for a second. She left them fogged and closed her eyes, soaking in the silence. It wouldn't last, but for a heartbeat she let herself pretend there was nothing to worry about—no bills, no half-finished science project eating her husband alive, no unspoken questions from two smart kids starting to doubt their dad.
She opened her eyes, cleared her lenses with a single swipe of her T-shirt, and set the mug down. Eggs, she reminded herself, cracking half a carton into a mixing bowl. The carton was cheap store brand—yolk splatters on the inside flap, a date stamped in almost-faded ink. They'd switched to no-frills groceries after Robert's grant money dried up, and she still wasn't used to the bland packaging. She whisked anyway, muscle memory from years of Saturday pancake mornings that used to feel like a party.
A framed photo on the fridge caught her eye—Robert in a white lab coat, holding up a glass award the size of a brick, smile splitting his face. A university dean had shaken his hand that day, promising "unlimited professional doors." That was almost a year ago. A second frame below showed the boys crowding Robert at the ceremony, Daniel beaming, Gabriel pretending not to grin. Nicole tapped the edge of the frame with her knuckle—always a tiny superstitious blessing—then went back to the eggs.
Should I wake him now? she wondered. She eyed the clock on the stove: 7:40 a.m. Robert had a standing 8:30 meeting every Tuesday. In the earliest months of his award, he'd left the house by six, hair neat, suit pressed, laptop zipped. As funding slowed and deadlines slipped, he started leaving closer to seven, then seven-thirty, then "after I tweak this one graph." Last month he'd missed the meeting entirely, lying that he'd caught food poisoning. Nicole had covered for him when the department secretary called—"stomach bug, you know how those hit"—but her stomach had knotted all day.
She poured herself another inch of coffee and decided: Five more minutes. Then she'd go up.
Robert's side of the bedroom smelled like stale coffee and printer toner. Printouts in two ragged stacks sat on the nightstand—graphs, protein sequences, letters from potential investors with We regret… in the first line. A yellow legal pad lay open across one pillow, black scrawl drifting downhill where the pen had slipped out of his hand sometime before dawn.
Light finally squeezed past the curtains and hit Robert square in the face. His eyelids twitched. He grunted, rolled left, then right, and blinked up at the ceiling like it had wronged him. He forced his head sideways toward the clock.
"Eight o'clock?" His voice cracked. Brain registered the number a beat later. "Eight o'clock!"
He flung the blanket aside, nearly sent the legal pad to the floor, and stumbled into the en-suite bathroom. The splash of cold water on his face slapped the last dream fragments away. He didn't bother shaving—no time, no energy—and was back out in under a minute, dragging yesterday's crumpled shirt from the hamper. Deodorant, blazer, tie in a crooked knot. Papers fluttered behind him as he barreled downstairs.
Halfway down he smelled bacon.
Nicole heard the rush before she saw him—heavy footsteps, a muttered curse when he jammed his toe on the banister post. She stepped out of the kitchen doorway, coffee mug steady in her hand.
Robert hit the bottom step, breathing hard. "Morning, honey. Really late. Gotta run." He aimed for the front door.
She side stepped in front of him, pressed her palm flat against his chest. "Shower. You stink of printer ink , burnt coffee and sweat."
"No time," he said, voice tight.
Nicole held up his car keys, dangling them just out of reach. "Then looks like you better start walking because these keys are staying with me until you freshen up."
Robert's shoulders slumped. He took the towel she handed him and trudged back up the stairs. As he turned on the shower, water shot down from above. Nicole used those ten minutes to plate breakfast: two strips of bacon, three scrambled eggs, two sausage links—his favourite, used to be a Saturday treat before grant budgets became a joke.He returned in fresh black trousers and a blue shirt that matched the tie his father had given him years back. Hair still a little wet, but at least he smelled like he belonged somewhere. He reached for the plate. "I'll eat on the way."
Nicole pulled out a chair. "Sit. We used to eat together. Remember that?"
Robert glanced at the clock again—8:18—and dropped into the seat. "We don't have time for a long talk."
"I only need five minutes." She sat across from him, elbows on the table. "You've been killing yourself chasing this project. You missed Gabriel's math award last month. You skipped Daniel's first real three-pointer Saturday. You know what both boys had in common on those nights… they both looked to the crowd for their father and you was missing, nowhere to be seen , we don't get to redo these moments Robert and the kids will always remember."
Robert poked at the eggs. "I'm doing what I have to, I don't want to miss these milestones in life , but my sacrifice will be worth it in the long run. The university fronted one grant check; the rest vanished. Investors want proof I can't get without equipment I can't afford. It's a knot."
Nicole softened her jaw, but her eyes stayed firm. "We get that. We cheer for you. But you've got two kids and a wife who barely gets to lay eyes on you, that should never happen with a husband and his wife."
He stared at his fork, scrolled back through all-nighters, empty coffee cups, and voicemail messages he kept promising he'd return. "My parents pulled double shifts in Queens laundry mats so I could be 'the families success story.' I can't fail now, I can't let their sacrifice be in vain."
"You won't," she said. "But burning out won't make your work any better, you will start to see diminished returns and it will only get worse. You can't honor your parents' sacrifice by making new sacrifices your own kids never asked for."
The words landed. He swallowed, forced himself to meet her stare. "I'll finish the data run this month. Then I'll breathe. I Promise."
Nicole watched his eyes, saw the fire and the fear behind them and she slid the keys across the table. "I believe you. Eat. Then go remind those investors why they should be begging for a piece of your next breakthrough. And tonight? Be home before the boys crash. They won't say it, but it matters."
Robert exhaled. "I'll try." He took a real bite, closed his eyes at the first taste of hot food unaccompanied by lab fluorescence.
Nicole's shoulders loosened. For the first time in months, they shared the same quiet room—not as passing ghosts, but as partners trying to steer the same shaky ship. Outside, a late bus rumbled past. Inside, forks clinked softly against plates, and the day—already too full—felt just a little more possible.