She had baked cinnamon rolls because Megan said the children liked “real breakfasts.” She had set out travel snacks in labeled bags.
She had packed coloring books and wipes and extra mittens for the grandchildren.
She had made ginger tea for Megan’s mother, Judith, because Judith had mentioned—only once, but in the tone that meant it would be remembered forever—that long car rides upset her stomach.
Evelyn remembered all of it because that was who she had been for years: the woman who noticed, prepared, absorbed, softened, paid, and overlooked.
A widow for twelve years, she had spent the last decade convincing herself that generosity was the same thing as being loved.
Her son Connor had moved back in three years earlier after “a temporary rough patch.” He and his wife Megan were saving for a down payment, they said.
They only needed a little time.
The children needed stability.
