One day several years ago—most likely during some winter break from school—I came into the kitchen at breakfast time.
At first, nothing seemed wrong. But closer inspection revealed that younger daughter Molly, who was sitting at the island, was looking forlorn with a lone tear trekking down each cheek.
Older sister Lilly was at the table, eating Cheerios and reading the newspaper.
I discovered there had been a bit of an incident while they were boiling water for hot chocolate. Though the mess had been cleaned up, a hand was still stinging, a heart still hurting.