“Mom,” Daniel said, looking at my suitcase before my face. “What are you doing here?”
I still remember the low hum of the porch light, the rain slipping off my umbrella, the weight of the suitcase handle cutting into my fingers.
“I called you,” I said. “I fell today. The doctor said I shouldn’t stay by myself. I just need a week, honey. One week until the swelling goes down and I can move better.”
He let out a breath through his nose, not like a worried son, but like a man being inconvenienced.
He glanced back. Rebecca didn’t move. She only lifted her eyes over the rim of her glass. Then I saw my granddaughter, Emma, halfway down the stairs in pink pajamas, her hair messy, peeking through the banister. She had that open, trusting look children still have before life teaches them how often adults fail at the important moments.
“It’s not a good time,” Daniel said.
“I won’t be in the way,” I answered, feeling the ache in my hip sharpen the longer I stood there. “I can stay in the guest room. Just this week.”
That was when he said it. Not angrily. That would have been almost kinder. He said it in a dry, tired, almost administrative voice, as if he were rejecting a request on paper.