My mouth opened. His name was right there, the way it used to leave me when he was seven and scared of thunder. Nothing came out.
Faint laughter drifted from inside.
Jason stepped back into the warm hallway light.
“I mean it, Mom. Go away. Please. Before they see you.”
Then the door shut. Not slammed, not at first. The latch clicked. A second later, as if he wanted to be sure his point had landed, the deadbolt slid into place with a heavy, final sound.
The cold crept under my coat as I stood on the porch.
Faint laughter drifted from inside. Glasses clinking. A baby’s soft cry that pulled at my whole chest.
Phoebe. I’d come all this way for my granddaughter.
One slow, shaking breath left me. When my eyes opened again, something inside had gone very still.
The pink blanket hadn’t been the only gift I brought that day.
