She still hadn’t touched me. Not because she didn’t want to—because she didn’t trust reality enough yet. Her hands were so thin around the edge of the stool that my stomach turned.
“Look at me,” I said softly.
Her eyes lifted.
And there it was. Relief, yes. But behind it, something worse. Shame. Not the kind people earn—the kind that gets poured over them until it starts to feel like skin. They had starved and diminished my wife inside my own home and somehow made her feel embarrassed for being found that way.
I shifted Noah on one arm and held out my free hand.
“Come inside,” I said.
My mother stepped forward sharply. “No.”
The word cracked through the kitchen like a whip. Noah flinched before he could hide it. Ava’s whole body tightened.
I turned my head slowly.
“No?” I repeated.
My mother realized too late that she had said the wrong thing out loud, but instead of backing down, she reached for the weapon she trusted most: outrage dressed as authority.
“There are guests in the house,” she said. “Important people. This isn’t the time to make a scene.”
I looked past her toward the glowing doorway leading to the main kitchen.