The morning my son turned five, the house smelled like vanilla candles, bacon, and the plastic sweetness of balloons fresh out of a bag.
woke Ethan before the sun had fully climbed over the maple tree outside his window. He was sprawled across his dinosaur sheets with one sock on and one leg kicked free, his hair flattened on one side and sticking straight up on the other. For a second, I stood in the doorway and watched him sleep, letting myself feel the strange ache that always came on birthdays. Five. It sounded too big. Too solid. Too far from the tiny newborn I had once held against my chest while promising I would know how to protect him from everything.
