A Quiet Full Circle

Saturday mornings always started the same way now, with sun slipping through the half-open blinds and the smell of pancakes on the griddle. He stood by the stove, cane hooked over his wrist, flipping the batter with a practiced flick. No rush. The kids barreled in from their rooms, the five-year-old tugging at his leg while the three-year-old climbed onto a stool, eyes wide for chocolate chips.

"More chips, Dad!" the little one demanded.

His wife laughed from the sink, drying her hands on a towel. She wore her faded Deadpool shirt, the one that sparked that wild story years back—the Karen slap that still got chuckles around the table. "You heard him. Extra for the boss."

He smiled, real and easy, sprinkling chips into the golden pools. This is us now, he thought. No echoes of old shadows. Just syrup-sticky fingers and full plates.

Later, down in the basement amid shelves of collections, he eased onto the old chair with the scrapbooks. The first one, thick and worn, sat pride of place. Pages turned slow: faded photos of tense early visits, notes on dropped habits, the first genuine laugh scribbled in after the Deadpool tale. Volume two beside it brimmed with wedding stubs, baby ultrasounds, poutine date receipts.

She found him there, leaning in the doorway. "Reliving the wins?"

"Yeah. We did good." His hand found hers. Simple words. Enough.

Upstairs, kid voices called for lunch. Life pulled them forward, steady as ever.

Evening settled cozy on the couch, poutine steaming on the coffee table—gravy rich, fries crisp, his favorite comeback meal. Deadpool flickered on screen, the kids giggling at the quips while half-playing with blocks. She curled against him, her head on his shoulder, wedding band cool against his skin.

"Round two tonight?" she teased, nodding at the TV.

He grinned. "Always." Laughter rose with the movie's chaos, theirs mixing in. No pressures, no past weights. Just this: family tangled in blankets, full bellies, tomorrow waiting kind.

All was well. Thankfully.