She adjusted him gently.
“I’m Laura,” she added.
“I’m an exhausted mom,” I replied. “That’s about as much of a name as I can manage.”
She let out a quiet, surprised laugh.
The entire drive, she kept apologizing.
“I’m really sorry.”
“I swear I’m not unstable.”
“I’ll be gone first thing in the morning—you don’t need to feed me.”
“You’re fine,” I told her again and again. “You’re not a burden. This was my choice.”
We turned into my driveway.
The porch light softened the look of the peeling paint, almost making it feel inviting.
“This is your house?” she asked softly.
“Yeah,” I said. “It belonged to my grandparents.”
“It’s lovely,” she said—and I could hear that she meant it.
Inside, the air smelled like detergent and old wood.
The Christmas tree lights blinked quietly in the living room.
“Sorry about the clutter,” I said out of habit.
“It’s beautiful,” she replied.
I showed her to the small guest room.
