My mother called at 2:07 a.m. and said, “You can c…

By five-thirty, I had changed from my suit into a dark green dress and low heels in the office restroom, wiped off my lipstick, tied my hair back, and stared at myself in the mirror over a sink that smelled faintly of lemon cleanser. Simple, just like Mom asked. On the drive down, rain needled across the windshield in silver lines.

Headlights smeared on wet asphalt. I passed gas stations, chain restaurants, church signs with messages about grace and obedience, and the same exit where Dad used to stop for coffee when I came home from college. Back then, he still tried a little.

Not enough to change anything, but enough to make me think maybe he noticed. By the time I turned onto my parents’ street, the rain had stopped. The neighborhood looked exactly like it always had: trimmed lawns, porch lights glowing amber, flags hanging still in the cool air.

The house itself was lit up like a display window. Every downstairs lamp on. Curtains open.

Company coming. I parked at the curb and sat there a second, fingers still wrapped around the steering wheel. From inside, through the front window, I could see my mother moving briskly through the dining room, straightening something already straight.