I used to tell myself that helping my son was natural—part of the quiet duty that stays stitched to a mother’s heart long after her child is grown. When Daniel moved back into my home at forty-four, stressed from a job shift and overwhelmed by bills, I opened the door without hesitation.
“It’s only temporary, Mom,” he said, setting boxes in my hallway. “Just a few months until we stabilize.”
Behind him, Mara stepped inside with her perfect posture and careful smile. Thirty-eight years old, always camera-ready, always curating an image. She glanced around my living room like she’d arrived at a thrift shop.
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