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Bryan’s always been an early riser just by nature. He was the first awake in his household since he was a baby, and his time in the Marine Corps had only pushed his wake time earlier. Nowadays, he’s usually up with the sun, the first crack of dawn enough of an alarm clock for him.
His daughter is the exact same as him, to the point that Finola jokes on occasion that they should’ve just named her ‘Dawn’. Imogen is a spitting image of them both with his sage green eyes and his jaw, his wife’s freckled cheeks and curly black hair, and a nose perfectly in between theirs. As for her personality, she’s a little bit her mother and a lot her father. She’s got that compassion and curiosity that Bryan adores in Finola, but the sarcasm and loyalty and perseverance that others see within him. And, apparently, his inclination to wake at the asscrack of dawn.
So while Finola sleeps soundly in their bed, Bryan pecks her on the cheek and begins his morning routine. Brush teeth, clean face, shave where he needs to, dress, and then down the stairs to his daughter’s room. Imogen’s already made her bed by the time he’s got there, and he greets her with a soft kiss to her head.
“Good morning, baby girl,” He says.
“Mornin’, daddy,” She murmurs back, rubbing her eye clean of sleep.
She’s eight already, and though Bryan stubbornly considers himself to still be a young man, acknowledging his daughter’s age makes him feel old. He still remembers the first time she cried, such a little yet beautiful thing cradled in Finola’s arms. Imogen had been a tiny baby and she’s still kind of tiny now, but Finola swears she has her genes for height and that Imogen will hit a growth spurt mid-teens like a bean pole, but that’s still years away.
With Imogen dressed, Bryan hauls her up into his arms, smiling to himself as she clings on, her little arms wrapped around his neck and little head tucked into his shoulder. He takes them into the kitchen where he plops her down onto the barstool of the kitchen island.
“What should we do for breakfast?” Bryan asks as he rounds the corner.
Imogen hums, debating noisily. “Something strawberry. Or cherry.”
“Alright,” Bryan says, “We can do strawberry. Pancakes? Oatmeal?”
“Is it possible to make strawberry eggs?”
Bryan scrunches his nose. “Probably, but I don’t think that’d be very good.”
Imogen scrunches her nose as well in agreement. “Yeah,” She mumbles. “Can we do French toast with strawberries and maple syrup and cinnamon sugar?”
“As long as there’s a protein with it!”
Finola’s chime in makes Imogen whip around as her face lights up, and she wraps her little arms around her mother’s waist as she joins Imogen at the kitchen island.
“Morning, mommy,” She says.
Finola wraps her arms around her daughter and squishes her in a hug, kissing the top of her head.
“Good morning, baby,” She murmurs.
Bryan joins them as well, a hand on Imogen’s shoulder as the other falls to Finola’s waist, and he pecks her on the cheek.
“Then why don’t we cook up that left over sausage?” He suggests.
“Fine by me,” Finola responds, and then shoots a look to her daughter, “One sausage link for every slice of toast, understand?”
“Yes, mommy,” Imogen drones.
Neither Bryan nor Finola can help their soft chuckles at their daughter, and Bryan ruffles her hair, drawing from Imogen a yawp of indignation.
As Bryan returns to the fridge, picking out needed ingredients, he says, “I haven’t started the coffee yet.”
“I’ve got it,” Finola responds, roving toward their coffee maker.
“Can i have orange juice?” Imogen asks as she spots her dad in the fridge.
Bryan fishes out the necessities for French toast and the left over sausage and then snatches their carton of orange juice. He takes one of Imogen’s cups, turns to her, and flips it then slams it down onto the countertop, grinning as she laughs. He fills it and slides it to her.
“One orange juice for the little lady,” He jests.
Bryan returns the orange juice carton to the fridge then starts on their breakfast. Some point along the way, Finola hands him a cup of hot coffee, which he takes with a ‘thanks’ and another kiss, this time to her lips. Settled with her own cup of coffee, Finola leans on the countertop next to her husband as he cooks, facing their daughter.
“Are you looking forward to school today, darling?” She asks.
Imogen brightens at the question. “Yes! Our teacher said she was going to get our class pet today and that we get to name him.”
“You mentioned that last week, didn’t you?” Bryan chimes in, “what animal did y’all decide on?”
“A frog! He’ll live in a little tank in the back of the classroom, and we’ll get turns taking him home on the weekends if we want to volunteer. I want to name him Lime because green frogs look like if you squished a lime and gave it legs, but one of my other classmates wanted to name him Milkshake, and another classmate wanted to name him Opal, so now we have to vote on.”
Bryan can do nothing but grin as his daughter goes off on an excited ramble, her gleeful words something so sweet to his ears. He glances at Finola and sees that same admiration in her eyes as she watches Imogen with a soft smile and a mother’s unending love.
It’s mornings like these that he’s grateful to have reached, mornings like these that make the strife of his younger years so worth it, because if even one thing had been different, he might’ve never made it here. His wife and his daughter are the heart of his world, the suns around which he orbits, their family small but soft, precious to him beyond words. Bryan doesn’t know what he’d do without him, doesn’t want to even consider where he’d be if he had never met Finola, so reserved and isolated before her that he doubt he would’ve made it through Orbital. His lack of self-value would’ve gotten him killed. But not now. Not with his family. Not with his wife, who shows him endless love and who he loves endlessly, and not with their daughter, a perfect being of them both and something entirely original.
Finola herds them to the dining table once their plates are made, but it’s less of a nice, large dining table and more of a dining nook, a small table perfect for the three of them in one of the brightest spots in their house. The room is lit by the white, feathery light of the morning sun, and Imogen entertains them with another story from school as they eat.
Finola takes their plates once they’ve finished, returning to the kitchen to wash them as Bryan tends to their daughter.
“Should we do your hair today?” He asks.
“Yes!” Imogen says, cradling her second cup of orange juice.
“What do you want to do?”
“A bun,” She says, “like mommy’s.”
Bryan smiles as the warmth that festers in his chest, the endearment that his daughter seeks to imitate her mother. He diverts to her room to pick out a a few tools and products, then returns to his daughter. He begins with brushing, always begins with brushing, starting at the tips before working his way to the roots, mindful to be gentle. He hums as he works, something that keeps Imogen calm and makes the process of brushing her hair into something soothing as she closes her eyes and hums too.
With her hair brushed, Bryan pins and twists it until it’s a tiny replica of his wife’s go-to work hairstyle, a little bun that sits on the back of Imogen’s head. Then he urges her from her seat, helps her dawn her jacket and her backpack, and corrals her to the front door. Finola’s going about, taking care of the last little things before they leave for the day, meeting them at the front door with her purse and work attire dawned.
“Ready?” She asks.
“Always,” Bryan replies.