THE kitchen smelled faintly of garlic and thyme as Amelia moved about, rinsing dishes and wiping down the counter. The day had been long, her body weary, but the silence in the house was heavier than the chores in her hands. She sighed, tying her hair into a messy bun just as her phone lit up on the counter.
She glanced at the screen. ‘Mom.’
Her heart softened a little. She quickly dried her hands on a towel and picked it up.
“Hello, Mom,” she said, trying to mask the fatigue in her voice.
“My daughter,” Mrs. Harlow’s gentle tone carried through the line, a balm Amelia hadn’t realized she needed. “How are you?”
Amelia let out a faint laugh, one that didn’t reach her heart.
“I’m managing.”
“Managing,” her mother repeated, her voice laced with concern. “Amelia, you don’t sound okay.
