I descended the wooden stairs that led to the kitchen, stepping lightly so I wouldn’t wake our sleeping children. A slight creak was all it would take.
I was eager to watch the sunrise through the kitchen’s eastern window and catch the predictable wafts of my husband’s dark roast brewing. More than anything, I just wanted a peaceful start to the day.
But the kitchen scene offered anything but serenity.
Bowls covered in hardened oatmeal piled in the sink, Happy Meal toys littered the table, and multiple piles of papers—amid piles of possibly clean laundry—covered the counters.
Why did I think this morning would be any different?
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