I stood on my daughter’s doorstep at 2:30 on a quiet Thursday, finger hovering over the doorbell. No invitation. No warning. Just that gnawing feeling mothers learn to trust—or regret ignoring. Every time Laura said she was “fine,” her voice said the opposite.
From the outside, her house looked perfect. White siding, black shutters, trimmed hedges—the kind of place people point to and say, “They’ve got it together.” But perfection can be a mask. Lately, I’d driven past, slowing down, drawn by a stillness that felt too heavy.
Inside, the house was freezing. Laura scrubbed a pot at the sink, thin cardigan doing nothing against the chill, her hands red and raw. At the table, her husband Daniel and his mother, Margaret, ate comfortably, wrapped in sweaters, a space heater glowing beneath Margaret’s feet.
I stepped in. “Laura, sit down,” I said softly.
Margaret’s polite smile didn’t reach her eyes. “She’s fine,” she waved.
“No,” I said. “Sit.”
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