The morning sunlight filtered through the curtains, casting a warm glow over Lysander's crib. I stood watching my son sleep, marveling at how much he'd grown in just twelve months. His dark hair—so like his father's—curled slightly at the edges, and his peaceful face showed hints of the man he would one day become.
"Good morning, my little duke," I whispered as his eyes fluttered open, revealing irises that mirrored my own.
His face broke into an immediate smile of recognition, his tiny arms reaching upward. "Mama!"
That single word never failed to melt my heart. I lifted him from his crib, inhaling his sweet baby scent as I held him close.
"Shall we find your father?" I asked, adjusting his small nightshirt.
"Papa!" Lysander exclaimed, clapping his hands with enthusiasm that only a one-year-old could muster so early in the morning.
