Page 1 of Hale Yeah, It’s You

There’s a fragile sliver of time between sleep and waking—when the world is quiet, your mind is still soft with dreams, and the lie you’ve been trying not to believe almost feels true.

It’s a fleeting illusion, that warmth, and it’s gone the second reality starts to creep in.

And when it does, it leaves you cold. Alone.

Grasping for pieces of something that never really was.

Still, I chase that moment every morning. Maybe that makes me a fool. Or a masochist.

Whatever it makes me, one thing’s for certain: I am not a morning person. And it’s far too early to be wrestling with existential dread.

When my eyes adjust to the soft morning light filtering through the windows, I gently stroke the head of brown curls resting against my stomach.

My neck is stiff, head too high off the mattress.

Last night, our little trio piled into the master bed for our end-of-summer movie night tradition.

It’s something we’ve done for years—one last hoorah before the school year starts.

Alayna climbed in the middle, and we made it through two, maybe three, movies before I passed out.

I remember laughing until popcorn flew everywhere, covering the sheets and the floor.

I’ll have to strip the bed later, put on fresh linens.

The whole house could use a clean slate, now that summer’s over.

It felt so natural, the three of us like that.

Comfortable and familiar. We laughed like we hadn’t in months.

And yet now, with morning creeping in and my muscles protesting, I’m trapped.

Caged like a wild animal in a life I used to dream about.

One I once prayed for. So why is that happiness suddenly slipping through my fingers?

Despite the pretty picture we paint, something’s changed. Or maybe it’s me. Maybe I’ve changed.

Alayna’s soft snores continue as I stroke her hair. She hasn’t curled up against me like this in ages. The weight of her, the warmth—it tugs at something deep and aching. Tomorrow she starts high school. And it’s not only the end of our summer. It’s the end of an era.

She’s standing on the edge of something big. I can feel it. And while I’m excited for all that’s ahead for her, I’m terrified of what that means for me—for us. For this little family we’ve patched together over the years.

Gone are the days of scraped knees and magic Band-Aids, of dolls and sticky Lego traps in the hallway.

Now it’s sleepovers and mascara tutorials and late-night calls with boys I pretend not to hear.

The tiny tears over spilled juice have morphed into full-blown teenage heartbreaks.

She’s growing up too fast, and I’m not sure I’m ready.

These next four years will shape her future. College. Dreams. Independence. And I don’t know where I’ll fit in once she gets there.

“You awake, Keke?” Clay’s voice is groggy, thick with sleep .

I shift slightly, realizing his arm is the lift beneath my pillow. A pang stabs behind my eyes, sharp and sudden. Too early for tears.

“Mmhmm,” I mumble. “What time is it?”

The bed shifts as Clay moves. His arm slips out from under me, and I drop flat onto the mattress with a soft exhale.

“Few minutes after six,” he says after checking his phone. “You heading into the store today?”

I groan. Inventory won’t count itself. “Yeah. Already late.”

I ease out from under Alayna, careful not to wake her. I press a kiss to her forehead and tuck the comforter around her. In sleep, she looks just like me—a carbon copy, minus the few lines and wrinkles I’ve earned over the years. Sometimes it’s like looking into a time machine.

“Make her some breakfast?” I ask Clay.

He nods. “Go shower. I’ll make coffee.”

He gives me one of his lopsided grins, rubbing a hand over his scruffy jaw. His sandy blond hair sticks up on one side, boyish and endearing.

“You’re the best,” I murmur, escaping to the bathroom.

Hot water and strong coffee. That’s what I need before I think too hard.

Under the shower spray, I try to convince myself that this morning is like any other. That everything’s fine.

But it’s not. Something’s shifting. Has already shifted. And no amount of rinsing can wash that feeling away.

Twenty minutes later, I’m dressed in my Hale Hardware tee and faded jeans, hair pulled into a damp ponytail. I rush into the kitchen, wet strands soaking the back of my shirt.

Alayna is perched on a barstool, bleary-eyed, curls wild, and arms cradling a pancake-loaded plate.

“Morning,” she says as I pluck a popcorn kernel from her hair.

Clay hands me my purple travel mug. “Figured you’d want yours to go. ”

The kitchen looks exactly as it always has—brown laminate counters, blue tile floors, scarred wooden stools. We upgraded the appliances four years ago, but the soul of the place hasn’t changed. My grandmother’s kitchen. Now ours.

“What would I do without you?” I ask, sipping cautiously.

“Die a slow, uncaffeinated death,” Alayna says, deadpan.

“Such a cheeky child.”

Clay laughs. “She’s not wrong. You’d live on energy drinks and takeout.”

“You’re both insufferable,” I mutter, smiling despite myself. “But I really do have to go.”

“At least take a pancake,” Clay says, wrapping a sausage in one and pinning it with a toothpick. He hands it to me in a paper towel. “Can’t have you hangry all morning.”

“My coworkers thank you,” I say. Not that I’ll see many today—just my dad and Mike. The fewer people, the better.

“Tell Grandpa he’s still my favorite,” Alayna mumbles through syrup. “And remind Dad I deserve new shoes.”

Clay rolls his eyes. “You’ll live until next weekend.”

“Take her to get the shoes,” I tell him, grabbing my bag. “It’s her first day of high school. She only gets one.”

He steers me toward the door, mock-scolding. “You’re supposed to back me up, not enable her.”

“You expect too much from me in the mornings.”

“You’re lucky I love you.”

My heart squeezes. “Love y’all,” I call out, stepping outside.

The Idaho sunrise paints the sky in warm pinks and oranges. I take a deep breath of crisp air.

“Purse,” Clay calls, slipping the strap over my head. “We all know how forgetful you are.”

“Yeah,” I sigh. “If only I could choose what to forget.”