Nora dashes from room to room. Crackers here, shoes there, jam off the high chair. 'Mama, look!' calls a voice.
'Mama, my tummy hurts!' groans a boy from the couch. Six voices fill the house. Blocks clatter to the floor.
Cereal for three. 'Why?' for another. A warm forehead, a kiss, a lullaby. The clock says bedtime already.
She hums and rocks the youngest. The kitchen sink drips. Drip. Drip. Drip. The house never truly stops.
Finally, the last spoon is set down. The bedroom doors close. Nora tiptoes to the kitchen.
She fills her cracked blue mug with tea. Steam curls up, warm and faintly floral. She wraps both hands around it.
The house goes quiet except for the hum of the refrigerator. Nora breathes. Just for a moment, she breathes.
A small hand appears in the doorway. The youngest daughter clutches a crumpled paper. 'I made this for you,' she whispers.
Nora unfolds it. A woman with six tiny hands sits in a big chair with a steaming cup. A crayon sun hovers above. 'FOR MOMMY WHO DOES EVERYTHING,' it reads.
Nora sits in the kitchen chair and sips her tea. The drawing rests on the table beside her. She traces the crayon sun. Six pairs of breathing children sleep down the hall. The house feels soft and still.