What I didn’t tell her was that my meetings ended early.
Near midnight, I pulled into the driveway after more than 20 hours of travel. I was exhausted, suitcase dragging behind me, craving sleep. The moment I stepped inside, that exhaustion vanished.
In the hallway’s dim light, Emily lay on the floor. My pregnant daughter.
She was curled on a thin, squeaky air mattress, the kind meant for emergencies. Her blanket had slipped down over her belly. Even asleep, she looked uncomfortable.
I dropped my suitcase.
“Emily?” I whispered. She stirred, looked up, and when she recognized me, her eyes filled with tears.
“Dad?” she said, her voice cracking as she tried to sit up, one hand bracing her back.
“You’re back early,” she said.
“I am,” I replied, kneeling beside her. “But what on earth are you doing out here? Where’s your bed?”
She hesitated, then quietly said, “Because of Linda.”
My stomach tightened.
Emily explained that Linda claimed there were no beds available, that she and Jesse had taken the rooms, and that the couch was supposedly at a repair shop. If Emily wanted to stay, this air mattress was her option.
