Sophia woke to the smell of coffee and the soft clatter of pans. Grace was at the stove making scrambled eggs like she’d done it a thousand times. James sat at the table looking ten years older than he had in the dark.
“You didn’t have to cook,” Sophia said.
Grace turned with a sad, gentle smile. “I haven’t slept past six since 1972.”
They ate in quiet. Eli started crying—his colic cry that nothing soothed. Grace was out of her chair before Sophia could stand.
“May I?”
Sophia handed him over, feeling like the worst mother in the world.
Grace settled into the rocking chair, laid Eli tummy-down across her forearm, and started patting in slow, practiced circles while humming an old hymn under her breath.
Two minutes later, Eli was quiet.
Sophia stared. “How…?”
“Raised four of my own,” Grace said softly. “Colic’s the devil, but it passes.”
James spoke for the first time. “We heard your mother-in-law yesterday on the balcony.”
Sophia’s stomach dropped again.
“We’ll go,” he said immediately. “We never meant to put you in that position.”
“Stop.” Sophia’s voice came out sharper than she meant. “Just… stop.”