You go downstairs.

The kettle clicks off while you’re spreading butter across the bread. Two lunchboxes are already open for the kids, and now a third for Tom; his will be simpler, but you like knowing he’s got something decent to eat in the middle of his work.

You layer ham into his sandwich, pressing the slices down so they stay in place, then wrap it in foil. A bag of crisps, an apple, and a chocolate bar go in next, followed by the flask you filled with tea a moment ago. You slot the lid on his lunchbox and place it by the door where he’ll grab it without thinking.

The children’s lunches are more colourful, cheese and tomato for one, ham for the other, apple slices in little tubs, yoghurt pots, and a biscuit each. You slide them into their school bags with a quick check: water bottles, reading books, homework.

Steam curls from your own mug on the counter, the tea still hot. You take a sip before rinsing the knife and wiping the crumbs from the board. The kitchen smells faintly of toast and laundry powder from the load you put on earlier.

“Shoes on!” you call up the stairs, already knowing you’ll have to say it again in two minutes.

You pick up your flats, you slide one foot in, toes pressing forward until they find their place. The snug fit wraps over the curve of your foot. The lining is soft, shaped perfectly to you after some good while of wear. You press your heel down into place with a small, practised push.

The second shoe goes on just the same, a little tighter at first, then relaxing as your toes settle. You give each foot a quick wiggle, checking the fit, then stand and feel the flats. Coat draped over your arm, and glance at the hallway mirror, a quick check, not for anyone else, just to feel ready.