Eventually, my mother made the suggestion I had been quietly avoiding.
“You should stay for dinner,” she offered warmly, her tone carrying gentle insistence.
Adeline accepted instantly, her relief visible despite her attempt to remain composed.
Later, as evening deepened into night, practicality disguised itself as courtesy when my mother extended the invitation further.
“It is late already, and driving back now feels unnecessary,” my mother added thoughtfully. “You can stay here tonight if you prefer.”
Adeline nodded with unmistakable gratitude.
“Thank you,” she replied softly. “That truly means more than you realize.”
By the time the house settled into midnight stillness, exhaustion finally guided everyone toward sleep, leaving me alone with thoughts I deliberately avoided examining too closely. Old memories carry peculiar weight during quiet hours, because regret, resentment, and nostalgia often blend into something indistinguishable and dangerously persuasive.
Around midnight, thirst pulled me reluctantly from bed.