“Your sister’s family gets the guest room. Your kids can sleep on the floor.” Mom tossed two sleeping bags at my six-year-old. My sister laughed. “Should’ve booked a hotel.” I looked at my children kneeling, whispered, “Pack your things, babies,” and we left at 11 p.m. Three days later, Mom discovered what I quietly canceled.

Ashley appeared from the guest room in joggers and a sweatshirt that said blessed across the front. No hug. She looked at the pie and said, “You still make Dad’s recipe? I can never get the crust right.”

She’d never tried.

Dinner was fine. Pot roast, green beans, rolls from the bakery. Eleven of us around the table Mom had owned since 1994, the year Dad bought this house with a VA loan and a handshake.

Mom said grace. She thanked God for family, for health, for the food. She didn’t mention the tablecloth, which I’d spread across the table an hour earlier while she watched without comment.

After dinner, I washed dishes. Ashley dried one plate, then said her back hurt and went to sit on the couch.

Mom said, “Let her rest, honey. She’s been having a rough week.”

Ashley had been having a rough week since 2019.

It was 8:30 when the kids started fading. Owen’s eyes were doing the thing they do, half-closed, fighting it, too proud to say he’s tired. Ellie was already on the couch with her rabbit, one shoe off.

I found Mom in the hallway.

“Mom, should I set up the guest room for Owen and Ellie? I can put them on the floor in there with blankets, or—”

She gave me the smile.