As she sat, drinking her tea and watching ducks lazily glide across the water, she was happy. She glanced back into the room and saw her husband still sleeping, his arm thrown over his eyes.
She loved the morning. Loved the solitude and the chance to be alone with her thoughts. Loved the freshness of the day, the promise of it.
She generally got more done before nine than most people did before noon.
She laced her fingers together over her growing belly and lifted her face to enjoy the first rays of sun, now falling across the patio. Happy.
Six years and two children later, she is no longer a person who enjoys the morning. She is almost never woken by the sun gently warming her cheek. Being alone with her thoughts while enjoying a cup of tea is a fading memory.
She hates waking up in the dark. Hates being startled out of a dream by someone yelling her name or pulling her arm. Hates the half finished mugs laying around forgotten in the midst of other people's needs.
As she sits looking out at the still dark sky with one daughter on her lap and the other snuggled to her side, she can be happy.