This morning, Anthony wanted to make pancakes.
On his own.
Not help. Not “let’s do it together.”
Just him.
I was there, in the kitchen, but he didn’t want me hovering.
“I’ve got it,” he said.
So I stepped back.
I stayed close—just in case—but not too close.
He made the batter. Heated the pan. Watched the edges like I taught him.
They came out pretty good.
And he was proud.
He didn’t need a high five or a photo. Just the space to do it.
It’s a small thing—pancakes.
But also, not small at all.
