Eleanor wasn’t trying to frighten Sophie.
She was searching for the muscle memory of motherhood.
For the warmth of a child she once protected through countless sleepless nights.
Sophie’s bed was never too small.
It was simply holding two generations of instinct — one growing, one fading.
Now, every night, I check the monitor before bed.
Eleanor sleeps peacefully in her own room.
Sophie sleeps peacefully in hers.
And I understand something I didn’t before:
One day, the people who once held us through the night may need us to hold them back.
Not out of obligation.
But because love, when it is real, always circles home.
