On the morning of my daughter’s third birthday, the air in our kitchen was thick with the scent of chocolate and the frantic, joyful energy that precedes a toddler’s celebration. My wife, Jess, was standing by the counter, her hair pinned up in a messy coil, a stray smudge of frosting adorning her cheek. She was humming a melody that didn’t quite match the radio, her focus entirely on the dark, rich icing of Evie’s birthday cake. It was a scene of domestic perfection, the kind of quiet happiness that felt indestructible. “Don’t forget, Callum,” she had called over her...
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