My daughter

The morning light sliced through my curtains like an unwelcomed guest - bright, insistent, and entirely too early. I ignored it, as one does with most unwanted things.

Unfortunately, my phone had other ideas. It buzzed against the glass surface of my nightstand, rattling like it had something important to say. Spoiler alert: it didn't.

I reached for it with the grace of someone who'd been performing surgery until well past midnight and squinted at the screen.

A message from John. How thrilling.

John: Flying to London tonight. Don't wait up.

Ah, John. Ever the considerate husband - sparing me the agony of his presence with his usual efficiency. I tapped out a quick reply.

Me: Didn't plan on it.

I dropped the phone and turned back into my pillow, pulling the sheets up to my nose.

Soon enough, the day would begin, and I would be required to carry on my infinite duties and responsibilities.

But for now -

The sound of small, determined footsteps echoed down the hall.

The door burst open without so much as a knock, and my five-year-old daughter made her entrance - bold, commanding, and utterly unapologetic.

Alina always entered a room like she owned it, which I found both impressive and vaguely terrifying.

"Mommy," Alina announced, her tiny figure framed in the doorway like a very short queen. "I want pancakes."

I cracked one eye open. She stood there in her pajamas, dark curls a glorious tangle, clutching Sir Reginald Flopsy - her long-suffering stuffed rabbit - by one floppy ear with the iron grip of a war general. Her expression was grave. Negotiations had begun.

"Why be needy today of all days when neither your aunty nor your nanny is around?" I asked, my voice still rough with sleep.

"Because you're my mommy," she climbed onto the bed and sat on my back, tugging at the bed cover.

"And what makes you think I'm making pancakes?"

"Because you love me," she said without hesitation.

Hard to argue with that level of self-awareness.

I sighed, turned over and brushed a wild curl away from her face. "One day, you're going to use your powers for evil."

She grinned, entirely unfazed. "But not today."

Ten minutes later, I was standing in the kitchen, hair twisted by a heatless curler, A thin, short satin robe tied loosely around my waist.

The morning light filtered through the towering glass windows, bathing the sleek marble countertops in a soft glow. The quiet hum of the espresso machine filled the air, blending with the scent of butter and batter.

I flipped pancakes with the kind of efficiency one acquired after years of handling scalpels and saving lives.

Alina sat at the kitchen island, legs swinging under the stool, conducting an animated conversation with Sir Reginald.

"Mommy," she began, her voice serious. "Do you think princesses get bored?"

I glanced over at her, eyebrow arched. "Bored of what?"

"Of being princesses." She propped her chin on her little hand. "They always wear fancy dresses and go to balls, but that sounds kinda boring if you do it all the time. What if they just want to wear pajamas and eat pancakes?"

"Maybe that's why they sneak out of castles so much," I said, flipping the last pancake.

"Exactly!" She brightened, delighted. "They just wanna wear comfy clothes and go on adventures."

"And eat pancakes."

"Yes!" She pointed at me like I'd cracked a code. "Do you think I'd make a good princess?"