The house still holds last night’s laughter in its corners. Mom reached for something from the medicine cabinet at dawn — the small sounds of recovery. Dad hasn’t moved. It’s past ten and breakfast happened anyway, delivered to the bedroom on a tray. The smell of coffee drifts through the doggy door, mixing with April air that feels more like June. I am stretched along the back of the sofa, watching the light change, entirely content to let the morning take its time.