Then headlights swept across the dining room wall.
A familiar engine purred outside.
The front door opened.
And the woman from the roadside stepped in, brushing her hands together, eyes landing on me like this was exactly where she expected to be.
“I’m sorry I’m late,” she said calmly. “Traffic.”
Emma’s father stood so fast his chair scraped the floor.
“Margaret,” he breathed
The room didn’t explode. It tilted.
Margaret Langford was not just a guest. She was an institution. Her name lived on hospital wings, scholarship programs, and whispered conversations about who would rise and who would stall. Emma’s parents moved around her with a deference that bordered on fear.
She took the seat at the head of the table without asking.
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