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By seven, breakfast is a negotiation. Cereal, but only the kind with the red box. Fruit that must be cut into dinosaurs. I make a face and hand him a bowl of strawberries anyway—some fights aren’t worth winning. He tells me, solemn as a small judge, that his sneaker is broken. I inspect it with all the gravitas of a mechanic and declare it “repairable.” The tie I use is a strip of duct tape, a temporary patch that makes him grin and run outside as if he owns the sun.

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