She was only seven, but there she was every morning, determinedly mixing pancake batter or scrambling eggs.
I thought it was sweet at first. Most kids her age were still deep in dreams about unicorns or whatever second graders dreamed about these days while she was a poster child for a good kid.

But when I realized this was just her routine, I started to worry.

The first time I caught her carefully measuring coffee grounds into the filter, my heart nearly stopped.
Four-foot-nothing in her rainbow pajamas, dark hair neatly tied into pigtails, handling hot kitchen appliances before sunrise. It wasn’t right.
“You’re up early again, sweetheart,” I said, watching her fill cups with hot coffee.