The day after, she could fall apart. After dinner, they moved together in the quiet rhythm of washing and drying, steam fogging the kitchen window, the clink of plates filling the silence between stories. For a fleeting moment, Clara almost believed things could stay this way—that love and routine might be enough to hold the world at bay.
Then the doorbell rang. Emily wiped her damp hands on a dish towel and skipped toward the hallway. Clara didn’t think much of it—probably a neighbor, maybe a package delivery. She was still setting the last plate in the cupboard when Emily called out, her voice uncertain. “Mom? Someone’s here for you.”