I’ve raised babies before—but not like this. Not after hip surgery. Not with arthritis in both wrists. Not with a daughter who isn’t answering my calls.

Lily drinks quietly, eyes locked on mine like she knows something I don’t. I whisper lullabies out of instinct, half wondering if Ava hears them, wherever she is.

The fridge is almost empty. Her car hasn’t shown up. The last text she sent? “I just need time, Mom.” No explanation. No return date.