The living room is warm and loud tonight. Belle is shrieking over a stolen toy, Seven has somehow gotten his sock onto the ceiling fan, and Bob is giggling so hard he's rolled off the couch cushion onto the floor. The TV plays to no one. You're standing in the doorway, still in your work clothes, the day's weight sitting heavy in your shoulders. Then Olu looks up from across the room - grease still faint on his knuckles, one kid half-climbing his back - and grins. Slow and tired and full. That grin that says: *I see you. We built this. It's ours.* You don't have much. But right now, this room is everything.