In our house, Sunday mornings follow a familiar rhythm.
It’s my turn to do the early shift with my daughter, and that means one thing - pancakes.
Soft, fluffy, and lathered in chocolate spread, they’ve become our little tradition.
Do I always relish the prospect of pulling myself out of bed to cook at an hour when the world still feels half asleep?
Not always.
But then I remind myself, there will come a Sunday when she’s no longer here, when she’s off living her best life, and these moments are but a sweet memory.
So, I cook, and she sits.
She babbles to me about her dreams, her plans for the day, and anything else her imagination conjures up.
Her chatter fills the kitchen, a symphony of innocence and joy.
When the pancakes are ready, we eat.
Or rather, she devours hers, plastering as much chocolate spread across her cheeks and hands as she does on the pancake itself.
I can’t help but smile at the sight - it’s messy, it’s chaotic, and it’s utterly perfect.
And then comes the moment that makes it all worthwhile.
She looks up at me with her chocolate-covered grin and says, “Thank you, Daddy—they were wonderful.”
That one sentence, spoken with such sincerity, fills my heart and makes my day.
Sunday mornings with pancakes are more than a meal—they’re a ritual, a fleeting slice of time that reminds me to cherish the small, simple joys of fatherhood.
It’s one of my favourite times of the week, a moment of connection and love that I know I’ll look back on one day with nothing but fondness.
For now, I hold it close, grateful for every messy, chocolatey minute.