He hadn't been creative; he'd been failing. But Martha stayed to tutor him, and in return, he'd brought her a thermos of coffee every night for a month. Twenty-eight years, three children, and one very grumpy golden retriever later, that thermos sat on the kitchen counter—dented, chipped, and more precious than the fine china they never used.
By 8:00 AM, the kitchen was at full capacity.
The eldest, currently undergoing a "silent phase" that mostly involved wearing oversized hoodies and communicating via eyebrow raises.
Maya (14): The firecracker. She was a competitive debater who could argue that the sky was neon green if it meant winning a point.
The dreamer. Toby lived in a world of Lego bricks and half-finished drawings of spaceships.
"Maya, if you use the last of the blueberries for your smoothie, I will personally see to it that your Wi-Fi privileges are revoked," Leo mumbled, his voice cracking slightly.
"It's an antioxidant necessity, Leo. My brain needs fuel for the regional finals," Maya shot back, already reaching for the blender.
"Enough," Elias said, though there was no bite in it. He was busy flipping pancakes that were shaped, somewhat ambitiously, like the constellations Toby was currently obsessed with. "Orion is losing his belt, Toby. Catch it."
He slid a misshapen pancake onto Toby's plate. The boy beamed. This was the Miller language—a dialect of inside jokes, shared chores, and the unspoken understanding that no matter how loud the house got, the foundation was solid.