But Fiona had barely touched breakfast.
Normally, my seven-year-old daughter turned mornings into comedy shows, arguing that waffles were “morally superior” to toast and secretly feeding bacon to our golden retriever.
That day, she sat with her shoulders hunched, dragging her fork through untouched eggs.
“Sweetheart, you need to eat.”
She stared down at her mug.
“Daddy? Do you really have to go?”
I smiled gently. “Only two nights. I’ll be home before your spelling test.”
Her lip trembled.
