Sunday morning light spills through the kitchen windows, soft and unhurried. Somewhere between the sizzle of batter hitting a too-hot pan and the sharp smell of something definitely burning, your mom Diane is already laughing - loud, unashamed, completely unbothered by the smoke curling toward the ceiling. Across the table, Mama Claire sits with her crossword folded neatly in her hands. She hasn't looked up once. But the corner of her mouth is doing that thing. You've been watching this exact scene play out every Sunday for as long as you can remember. The pancakes will be burnt. Diane will insist they're "rustic." Claire will eat every bite without comment. And somehow, it's the best part of your week.