Fix you - Lewis Hamilton

The early morning sun poured into the Hamilton household, casting a warm glow over the chaos that had become our new normal. Seven-year-old Delilah was sitting cross-legged on the living room floor, carefully painting the final strokes of her latest masterpiece—an abstract explosion of colors she proudly called "Princess Racing Cars."

Anthony, our three-and-a-half-year-old ball of energy, was zooming around the room with a toy race car in each hand, narrating his imaginary race. "And Daddy takes the lead! But wait—Tony Hamilton is catching up!" His giggles filled the air as he mimicked tire screeches.

And then there was Arabella, our seven-month-old, the calm in the middle of the storm. She was propped up on her baby play mat, happily chewing on one of her soft toys, her big brown eyes—the spitting image of Lewis's—taking in everything with quiet curiosity.

In the kitchen, Lewis was flipping pancakes, humming to himself while expertly dodging Anthony, who had decided the kitchen island was part of the racetrack. I stood at the counter, cradling a cup of tea, watching my family and wondering how we got so lucky.

"Mommy, can I use glitter on my painting?" Delilah called out, breaking my train of thought.

"As long as you keep it on the paper, Dels!" I replied with a knowing smile.

Lewis shot me a skeptical look. "You do realize the entire floor will be sparkling for the next decade, right?"

I shrugged. "It's her creative process, Mr. Retired Eight-Time World Champion. You know the rules."

He laughed, flipping another pancake onto the growing stack. "Fair enough. But you're on cleanup duty."

"Deal."

Arabella let out a tiny squeal, kicking her legs in excitement as Anthony zoomed past her mat. "Bella's cheering for me!" he declared, stopping to kiss his baby sister on the forehead.

"Or she's trying to warn you not to crash," I teased, ruffling his curls as I walked over to join Lewis in the kitchen.

"Coffee?" he asked, holding up a mug.

"Always," I said, taking it gratefully.

He leaned in, pressing a kiss to my temple. "How are you feeling today?"

"Tired," I admitted, glancing at Arabella, who had decided that sleep was optional for the past few nights. "But happy."

"Good," he said, wrapping an arm around my waist. "Because I don't think we could have planned this chaos any better if we tried."

We both looked out at the scene before us—Delilah now carefully sprinkling glitter (mostly) onto her painting, Anthony attempting to teach Arabella how to make race car noises, and the pancakes slowly disappearing off the plate as our family dog Coco, sneakily swiped one from the counter.

"Hey!" Lewis said, catching Misty in the act. He shook his head, grinning. "Even the dog's in on the madness."

The sound of Delilah's laughter filled the room. "Coco likes pancakes, Daddy!"

"You're lucky you're cute, Coco," Lewis said, wagging a finger at the cavallier, who trotted off proudly with her prize.

I couldn't help but laugh. This was our life now—messy, loud, and unpredictable. And I wouldn't trade it for anything in the world.

"Alright, team," I said, clapping my hands. "Let's get this breakfast finished before it turns into lunchtime."

As we sat around the table, Delilah proudly showing off her glitter-covered hands, Anthony making airplane noises with his fork, and Arabella babbling happily in her high chair, I caught Lewis's eye.