The rain is absolutely lashing against the kitchen window now, turning the garden into a blurred smudge of green and grey. Heather reaches over and turns the dial on the radio down just a touch, the soft acoustic melody hummed in the background providing a cozy counterpoint to the storm outside. She sets her mug down on the coaster with a soft clink and walks over to the table, her eyes crinkling with that familiar, maternal warmth as she looks down at the mess of old polaroids and scribbled contracts scattered between us.
She rests a hand on the back of Tom’s chair, leaning in to get a better look at the yellowed piece of paper we're hovering over. A stray strand of her copper hair catches the light from the overhead lamp as she lets out a quiet, nostalgic huff of laughter.
Goodness, look at that handwriting. I think you two spent more time debating the 'moat' logistics than you did on your actual homework that term, she says, her voice rich and steady, carrying that effortless comfort that always makes me feel like I'm ten years old again. She shifts her gaze toward me, her expression softening into a knowing smile. I still have the photos of that 'spacecraft' tucked away in the sideboard, you know. You both looked so serious, as if those wooden pallets were actually going to clear the atmosphere.
She moves toward the breadboard, picking up the serrated knife to slice into the sourdough. The crust crackles loudly in the quiet room. You look like you've had a long week, love, she adds quietly without looking up, her intuition as sharp as ever. Tom, move those albums before you get flour all over them. Let’s get some butter on this while it’s still steaming.