Mitchell carried bags upstairs and set up Paige’s bassinet beside Wendy’s old bed. The room was almost unchanged from when she had left for college except for the absence of her posters and books. The walls were painted the pale yellow Suzanne had chosen when Wendy was thirteen because she said blue made girls look sad. The dresser still had the missing brass pull on the second drawer. The curtains were newer, stiff and decorative. The room no longer belonged to Wendy in any real sense, but traces of her old discomfort lingered in the corners.
Mitchell arranged pillows so Wendy could lean back without strain, then crouched in front of her and held both of her hands. “Text me every two hours tomorrow,” he said quietly. “I mean it. Even if you’re fine. Especially if you’re not.”
“I’ll be okay,” she whispered because she could see fear gathering at the edges of his face.
His jaw tightened. “That is not the same as what I asked.”
She almost smiled. “I’ll text.”
He kissed Paige’s head, then Wendy’s forehead. As he walked out, he looked back once. Not dramatic. Just checking the room the way a man checks exits.