the driveway, telling herself the tightness in her chest was just exhaustion.
Her two-month-old son was asleep against her shoulder, one tiny fist tucked under his cheek, his breath warming the collar of her T-shirt in slow, even intervals. She kept one hand on his back, feeling his ribs expand and contract. That small rhythm was the only thing in the kitchen that felt honest.
The dining table was already set. Six plates. Six folded napkins. Serving spoons lined in a row beside the bowls, the kind of arrangement that took effort and would be noticed only if something was wrong with it. She had set the table at nine o’clock, when Ryan texted to say his parents were coming early. She had cooked because his mother noticed everything, because two years of marriage into the Calloway family had taught her that a woman could be holding a crying newborn
