For the past couple of weeks, Andrew has been making pancakes for my breakfast — a small ritual of care that has become part of our morning rhythm. There’s something grounding about it: the familiar sound of batter hitting the pan, the soft sizzle, the comfort of being looked after.

This morning, though, I took a step of my own.

Andrew had made a batch of batter yesterday and left it in the fridge. Mid‑morning, I decided to try frying some myself. Nothing dramatic — just a pan, a ladle, and a bit of courage. He stood beside me, showing me what to do, offering the kind of calm guidance that makes new things feel possible.

And I enjoyed it.

It wasn’t just about pancakes. It was about doing something I haven’t done in a while, about learning again, about letting care flow both ways. It was about the quiet, ordinary ways we keep each other going.

Sometimes progress looks like big milestones. Today, it looked like a warm pancake on a plate — and the gentle reminder that small steps matter too.