Inside Jessi’s kitchen, the air smelled of strong coffee, cinnamon, and fresh pine from the Christmas tree in the living room.
Leo sat at the wooden breakfast table in his red socks, swinging his legs while sorting through a box of colorful building bricks.
I stood near the kitchen counter with a mug of black coffee. Across the island, Jessi quietly sliced apples for Leo.
The simple domestic rhythm felt like a room from which I had been locked out for years: familiar, painful, and unexpectedly warm.
Leo lifted two blue bricks.
“Ivan, can you help me build this tower? Mom says it keeps falling because the bottom is too thin.”
I set down my mug and knelt beside him.
“Your mom is right.”
I picked up a wide green baseplate.
“If you want to build something tall enough to survive a storm, you need a strong, wide foundation. Otherwise, once the top becomes too heavy, the whole thing falls.”
