A twin bed.
A faded quilt.
A dresser that leaned slightly to one side.
But the sheets were clean.
“I’ll grab you some towels,” I said. “Bathroom’s across the hall. Are you hungry?”
“You’ve already done so much,” she said, eyes glossy. “I don’t want to take anything else from you.”
“You’re not taking,” I said gently. “I’m offering. Let me.”
Her shoulders relaxed a fraction.
“Okay,” she whispered.
In the kitchen, I reheated leftover pasta and garlic bread.
I added baby carrots to the plate, mostly to convince myself it was balanced.
When I returned, she was perched on the edge of the bed, still wearing her coat, rocking Oliver slowly.
“I can hold him while you eat,” I offered.
She stiffened immediately.
“Oh—no, no. I’ve got him. I’ll eat later.”
She picked at the food, managed a few bites, then turned all her attention back to him.
I heard her murmur into his hair.
“I’m sorry, sweetheart. Mommy’s trying. I’m so sorry.”
It hit me straight in the chest.
I’ve never said those words out loud to my girls—but I’ve thought them more times than I can count.
That night, sleep came in fragments.
Every creak of the house jolted me awake.
One voice in my head said, You did the right thing.
Another muttered, You let a stranger into your house. Brilliant.
At one point, I got up under the excuse of checking the thermostat and peeked into the guest room.
Laura was half sitting, half lying back against the wall.
Oliver slept on her chest.
Her arms were wrapped around him like a seat belt.
In the morning, soft movement woke me.
I stepped into the hallway.
The guest room door stood open.
Laura was inside, neatly making the bed.
The blanket she’d used was folded with careful precision.
