Our tablet’s screen lights up the ceiling as we update our child’s learning app before bedtime. You’re listening to a podcast about ‘AI transforming work’ while I’m noticing how our toddler’s hands mirror yours—arranging carrot pieces into crooked towers of orange. The way you laugh at the mess, the way you’re teaching our AI assistant […]

It’s quiet now—the kind of quiet that comes when the kids have finally settled into sleep. I’m here with the last of my tea, watching the steam curl up toward the ceiling. That stillness, that exhale, after a whole day of moving together—the school lunches, the doctor’s appointments, the calendar reminders, all the way down

We know it’s 7:30 AM because the screen tells us—not the sunlight. But here’s what we’ve learned to trust: The way her hand touches the screen before sliding it toward the child, the way she says, ‘Let’s see… Yes, but maybe we’ll add a banana today. Just because we like it.’ A quiet strength, this—choosing

We’re sitting side by side, the house finally quiet after bedtime. The soft glow of monitors reflects the smartphone screens we inevitably check. Our shoulders brush against each other, tired but not alone. You trace the patterns on the mug, the one you always use for evening tea. Earlier, when helping with the prayers, we

It’s late, and the house holds its breath. I watch from across the living room as the soft glow of the lamp reveals that quiet strength humming beneath the fatigue. We’ve been holding the book of tomorrow’s dilemmas to our children’s imagination like a lantern. The way we transform the terminology of the future—AI, ethics,

Do you remember that evening when the laundry unfolded on the floor like a map of our week? Homework spread across the kitchen counter as the kids practiced their air guitar. Your voice, somehow steady in the chaos, reminded me about the school concert. But in the middle of it all, I saw something beautiful—how

The nightlight glow is still on. We’ve been here long enough to know the bedtime routine backwards – the stuffed bear, the missing button, the last sip of water. I’m at the kitchen table now, watching you scroll through your phone. You know, the way you’re checking the weather for tomorrow’s field trip, eyebrows furrowed,

We’ve all seen that moment, haven’t we? When the house settles into that rare stillness after bedtime. Tonight, I watched you from the doorway—our toddler’s favorite storybook in one hand, your phone with work emails in the other. The glow from your screen caught the that look of pure focus in your eyes, the same

You were staring at the phone screen again tonight—the blue light painting your tired face in the dark room. The kids are talking about Y2K trends, fascinated by the strangeness of flip phones, while you somehow juggle work deadlines and bedtime stories. I’ve watched you do this: transform yesterday’s relics into today’s wonder. It’s the

You know the moment. Last night, after the kids finally fell asleep, we were clearing the dishes when I heard you sigh softly. Not the tired kind of sigh—the ‘what’s next’ sigh. The washing machine that gave up the ghost last week. The college savings account that feels like it’s never enough. We’ve all seen