heard the front door open. I didn’t need to look; I knew the cadence of those footsteps. Heavy. Urgent. Entitled.

“Mom, we need to talk,” Tom shouted from the living room. His voice lacked its usual warmth; it was stripped bare, cold as a winter draft.

I wiped my hands on my apron and walked out. He stood there, my son, a man of thirty-two who still carried the shadow of the boy I had nursed through fevers and heartbreaks. But his eyes were glassy, holding a strange, manic shine. Behind him stood Amy, my daughter-in-law, wearing a smile that looked like it had been cut into her face with a razor.