I still remember the morning my neighbor dropped off a bag of zucchini from her garden while my youngest scrambled cereal boxes onto the counter. At forty-two, with two kids aged eight and eleven, my mornings look like a choreography of backpacks, permission slips, and last-minute lunch swaps. Some afternoons our street echoes with bikes and laughter, and sometimes I catch myself thinking about the little routines that make our house feel like home. Those routines live in the corners of the kitchen: where snacks are grabbed, soup is scooped, and holiday cookie projects come together on the counter. Small…