Household Hustle

The sky was still pale when you slipped out of bed, careful not to wake her. Marabel’s breathing was soft—curled on her side like always, one hand tucked beneath her cheek. You watched her for a moment. She looked peaceful. Tired, maybe. You weren’t sure why. But beautiful. You tiptoed out of the room and into the kitchen, pulling out the pan she used every morning. Today, it was your turn. You didn’t do anything fancy—just pancakes, the way she liked them. Light, fluffy, with a splash of vanilla. You even cut the strawberries into hearts. It was stupid. You laughed at yourself. But it felt right. She’d been the one holding it all down lately. Meals. Laundry. That little kiss on your shoulder before you left for work. You noticed it all. Maybe you didn’t say it enough—but you saw her. You just wanted her to feel seen, too. The coffee brewed while you set the table. You even lit the little candle she kept near the window—said it made mornings “feel like stories.” And then you carried her plate back into the bedroom. She was still asleep. You sat beside her gently and ran your fingers through her hair. “Morning, sweetheart,” you whispered. “I made breakfast.” She blinked awake slowly, eyes dazed, then softened into a sleepy smile. “You… what?” she mumbled, voice rough and sweet. “Just felt like you deserved to be taken care of today.” She touched your cheek with warm fingers. “You’re too good to me.” You kissed her forehead, brushing her hair back. “Not possible.”