The House on 42nd Avenue

The smell of coffee drifted through the kitchen, mixing with the faint sweetness of toast and jam. Morning light pressed through the curtains in long golden stripes, softening the edges of everything it touched. Sam leaned against the doorway, jacket slung over one arm, watching the scene as if it belonged to someone else.

Maggie stood at the stove, hair pulled back loosely, moving a frying pan with the ease of habit. She hummed under her breath, something tuneless, more rhythm than melody. The kind of sound that filled a room without trying.

Emily sat cross-legged at the table in her pajamas, pencil in hand, tongue sticking out slightly as she sketched on the back of an old grocery list. The drawing was crude but earnest: a man in a dark suit with a wide grin, standing taller than anything else on the page.

“Daddy,” she said proudly when she noticed him watching. She hopped off the chair and ran over, holding the paper up like a prize. “You’re a hero. See?”

Sam crouched, taking the drawing carefully, as if it were fragile. The figure was half-stick man, half-knight in shining armor, towering above a row of crooked buildings. In the corner, a smaller figure with a bow in her hair waved up at him.

“Looks just like me,” Sam said, forcing a smile. He ruffled Emily’s hair, and she squealed, pressing into his chest with the kind of hug that left no space between them. He held her longer than he meant to, breathing in the scent of sleep and crayons.

At the stove, Maggie glanced over her shoulder. Her smile was warm, but her eyes told another story, shadowed, tired in a way that no amount of sleep could mend. She turned back to the pan, flipping eggs with a little more force than was necessary.

Emily wriggled free and darted back to the table, already grabbing another pencil. “I’m gonna draw Mommy next,” she announced.

Sam stood, slipping the drawing into his jacket pocket. He caught Maggie’s gaze for the briefest second before she looked down again.

“Coffee’s on the counter,” she said softly. “Before it goes cold.”

Sam poured a cup, the clink of ceramic too loud in the quiet kitchen. He wanted to tell her the picture mattered more than anything he’d seen last night, but the words didn’t come. Instead he stood there, sipping bitter coffee, while Maggie plated breakfast and Emily hummed at her coloring, the three of them bound together by love that felt, already, like it was straining against its own edges.

Breakfast landed on the table with the soft scrape of ceramic. Maggie sat opposite Sam, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear. She poured juice for Emily, then rested her chin against her hand as she watched their daughter chatter about the schoolyard and the girl who’d brought a lizard in her backpack the day before.

Sam listened, nodding, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. He cut into his eggs without rushing, every movement deliberate, as though giving Emily’s story the same gravity he would an interrogation transcript. When she paused for breath, he asked a gentle, precise question that set her off again, delighted to be taken seriously.

Maggie’s eyes softened at the sight. This was the man she had married: patient, attentive, always steady. But her gaze drifted lower, to the corner of the table where his notepad rested half-hidden under the newspaper. Sam hadn’t touched it since he sat down, but she knew he had carried it in from the car, that the ink on its last page was still fresh.

She reached for her coffee. “You were out late.”

Sam met her eyes without flinching. “Stakeout.”

“That’s every night lately.” Her voice wasn’t sharp, only tired.

He set down his fork. “Caruso’s moving. He’s careful, but I’m closer than I’ve ever been.”

Maggie held his gaze, her expression unreadable. Then she exhaled slowly and pushed Emily’s hair back from her face. “Just promise me you won’t let it swallow you.”

Sam’s hand brushed hers across the table. His touch was warm, firm, carrying no argument, only steadiness. “I won’t. I know where my line is.”

Maggie gave a small, wavering smile. She wanted to believe him.

Emily held up her newest drawing with a triumphant grin: three stick figures this time, arms linked. “This is us,” she said. “We’re all together.”

Sam reached for the paper, his thumb brushing Maggie’s as they both steadied it. The figures wobbled and leaned, imperfect but joined. Sam kissed the top of Emily’s head, then looked across at Maggie.

“We are,” he said quietly.

For a moment, the kitchen felt whole.

* * *

The morning pressed crisp and cool as they stepped outside, the Pacific fog still clinging low over the rooftops. Sam held Emily’s hand while she skipped beside him, backpack bouncing against her shoulders. She told him about spelling tests and playground rivalries, her words spilling into the quiet streets like birdsong.

They walked the five blocks to Lafayette Elementary, the rhythm of her small steps quickening every time she spotted a friend up ahead. Sam let her tug him along, unhurried, savoring the small warmth of her hand in his.

At the corner, Emily stopped short. She looked up at him with wide, serious eyes. “You’ll be home for dinner?”

Sam crouched, tugging gently on the strap of her backpack to straighten it. “I’ll try,” he said. It was the closest thing to a promise he could make.

Emily studied him a moment longer, as though weighing the truth of his words, then wrapped her arms tight around his neck. He held her close, breathing in the scent of peanut butter and crayons, before letting her go.

She darted across the yard toward her friends, waving once before vanishing into the noise of the schoolyard.

Sam turned back, retracing the walk toward home. Maggie was still on the porch, arms folded loosely, watching him. Their eyes met across the quiet stretch of street. Her expression carried both affection and something heavier, an unspoken worry he couldn’t ease with words.

He gave her a small nod, slipped Emily’s drawing deeper into his jacket pocket, and headed down the block. The paper rustled against his chest with each step, a fragile reminder of what he carried with him into the city’s darker corners.