It was the birds that woke me—a chorus of chirps and trills just outside the window, their song more chaotic than melodic. I lay still, listening, as the first light of dawn crept through the curtains. A soft weight pressed against my arm: my eldest daughter, who had negotiated her way into my bed the night before with the determination of a seasoned strategist. Her grand plan to avoid an early bedtime had, ironically, led to her falling asleep faster than ever. Now, she snored lightly, her breath warm and steady against my shoulder. With eyes tired from a restless night, I sighed, giving in to the day.
There was only one remedy: coffee.
Not just any coffee, but pulled coffee—a ritual as precise as it was satisfying. I brewed it strong, added cream and sugar, and began the pour. Cup to cup, the stream stretched thinner, higher, until sunlight caught its arc, turning it into a frothy crown. The texture was silky, the flavor perfect.
I was halfway through my first sip when my wife emerged from the shower, steam trailing behind her like a faint cloud. Before she could pull on her shirt, I caught her in an embrace, careful to steer my cup away from her face. She was warm, damp, smelling of shampoo. We kissed—a familiar gesture, but this time, her lips lingered. A question seemed to hang in the air.
“There’s a lion dance at Otterly,” she said, her voice muffling as she started drying her hair with a towel. Her tone left no room for debate. She’d always been the one to orchestrate surprises, slipping moments of wonder into our routine like hidden treasures.
“Before or after your sister’s open house?” I asked, my cup hovering mid-air.
“Before. We should take the kids.”
Ah.
I had imagined a slow morning—a gentle easing into the day, not a frantic sprint. But personal plans tend to crumble in the face of a spouse’s determination.
“I’ll meet you there,” I said, feeling clever. Since she needed to return her sister’s car anyway, I figured I could let her take the kids, take my time lounging, and join them later.
Fate, however, had other ideas.
“Minor problem,” she added, fastening her watch. “I need to pick up food for the open house.”
I raised an eyebrow.
“So you,” she smiled and flicked my nose playfully, “will have to watch the kids at Otterly.”
And just like that, my morning was no longer my own.
By the time I arrived, the festivities were in full swing. Drums and cymbals filled the air, their rhythm pulsing like a heartbeat. The lion dancers moved in perfect sync, their bodies hidden beneath elaborate costumes of red and gold, their heads adorned with wide, blinking eyes and twitching ears.
I’d seen lion dances before, but never like this.
Because I’d never seen lion dancers sliding down a children’s slide.
It was pandemonium! These grand, mythical creatures, symbols of fortune and strength, tumbling down plastic slopes, their dignity unraveling with each descent.
Then came the trampolines. One lion took a cautious hop. Then another. Then…chaos.
They bounced. Heads bobbed, paws flailed. One landed off-balance, wobbled, and toppled. The lion’s mouth gaped in silent, theatrical despair.
I burst out in laughter at the absurdity of it all. The children that were in the ball pit surrounding the trampolines shrieked with delight, and piled over the fallen lions like an avalanche of howling mania. My wife glanced at me across the crowd as she made her way to the exit, her smile flickering with the same surprise I felt. For the first time in months, we were both sharing a moment, unplanned and unscripted.
That night, as I poured hot chocolate from a teapot for everyone, my eldest daughter appeared, clutching a lion dance flyer, eyes gleaming with anticipation.
The stream of liquid wavered in my hands, but this time, I let it fall where it may.