The late afternoon sun streamed in golden waves through the kitchen window, casting soft shadows on the floor. The air smelled faintly of jasmine and warm fruit. Katrina sat on the tiled floor, cross-legged, with a ripe mango cradled in one hand, its golden flesh already streaked across her cheeks like war paint. She bit into it with delight, juice dripping onto her chin.
Kendra watched her from the other side of the baby gate. The wooden barrier separated the living room from the kitchen—not that it was much of a barrier anymore. Kendra had recently turned three and was already testing her limits. She stood gripping the top of the gate with both hands, her tiny knuckles white with determination, eyes locked on her mother and that tantalizing fruit.
“Mama, mango!” she squealed.
Katrina laughed, a soft, full sound that made the air feel even warmer. She tore off another slice with her teeth, chewed quickly, and held out a mango slice across the baby gate.
“Say please,” she prompted.
Kendra puffed her cheeks out stubbornly, but then broke into a grin. “Pease!” she shouted triumphantly.
Katrina passed the piece over. Kendra grabbed it and immediately stuffed it in her mouth, mango juice mingling with her giggles.
Behind them, the baby monitor on the counter gave a soft chirp. In the nursery upstairs, the baby stirred but didn’t wake. Katrina glanced at it and then back at Kendra.
“Quiet, sweetie. Your brother’s still sleeping.”
Kendra nodded, her mouth too full to reply. She sat down near the gate, leaning against it as if it were just another part of the furniture now.
The kitchen smelled of milk, too—sweet and warm. A bottle sat on the counter, half-drunk from the last feed. It had become part of the rhythm of the house: mango slices in the afternoon, milk around the clock, laughter rising and falling like gentle waves.
Katrina leaned her back against the dishwasher and exhaled. The mango was half gone. She wiped her fingers on a cloth and reached for a sip of water.
She looked at Kendra, her toddler now growing out of babyhood, and thought how every moment—no matter how small—was a little painting in her memory. The baby gate, once a source of frustration, was now a frame holding a precious scene: the playfulness, the pleading eyes, the joy of sharing fruit with her daughter.
“Mama,” Kendra said suddenly, mango still on her lips, “dis is very lovely.”
Katrina smiled wide. “Yes,” she whispered. “It really is.”
Outside, the world could be chaotic. Bills, news, work, the constant tug of time. But inside this kitchen—on this floor, with mango-stained cheeks, sleepy babies, and spilled milk—was a moment of calm, a sliver of joy so honest and simple that it didn’t need to be anything else.
Just Katrina. Eating mango. Kendra. A baby gate. Milk. Very lovely.
