Their mother, Lisa, would appear a moment later, phone in hand, her tone brisk but kind. “You’re a lifesaver, Mom,” she’d say, pressing a quick kiss to Helen’s cheek before hurrying off to work. The routine was so familiar, it played out like clockwork, an unspoken choreography perfected over years.
Once the car disappeared down the street, Helen returned to the kitchen where two lunchboxes sat open like invitations. She filled them with care: half sandwiches, apple slices, small notes written in looping cursive. You’re brave. You’re loved. The children giggled when they found them, pretending to be embarrassed, but Helen knew they looked forward to it.