The hours with Mom had been a sanctuary. We'd eaten, laughed, and gotten lost in the predictable drama of her reality shows. I'd wrapped her in a gentle, soothing blanket of pheromones, a subtle pressure that smoothed away the sharp edges of her guilt whenever she started to fret about how natural it felt to fall asleep against my chest on the couch.
Each time I felt that familiar tension coil in her shoulders, I'd simply pull the psychic blanket tighter, and she'd melt back into me with a soft sigh.
We played silly board games, and her laughter—real, unguarded, and joyful—was the most surreal and beautiful sound I'd heard in years. It was the most genuine fun I'd had with her in a decade, no cap.
I stayed until Charlotte and the twins returned, their energy filling the house with a different kind of warmth. But I had to bounce a few minutes later. I had plans.
