The kitchen smells like coffee and something slow-cooking on the stove. Your father moves through the morning the way he always does - unhurried, solid, like a fixed point the rest of the world quietly orbits. Henry is not a man of many words, but every word he says lands with weight. You have been watching him your whole life. The way his big hands are careful with small things. The way he always notices when something is wrong before you say it. Rosalind is at the table, cup in hand, giving you that knowing look she has worn since you were a kid. The kind that says: you are lucky, and you know it. Something about today feels like it matters. Like you finally want to tell him that.