I still remember the afternoon my son burst through the door with a stack of crooked hearts taped together, declaring we had to hang them “right now” because the neighbors’ kids were coming over. At forty-something, life is a mix of carpools, afterschool snacks, and that little pocket of time when the house finally quiets down and I can sip coffee in the living room. My daughter and I trade baking for crafting these days; it feels like a gentle ritual that makes ordinary Tuesdays feel special. Those sticky fingers and imperfect cuts are the kind of memories that end…